


Are You Afraid of the Dark?

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Suicide Squad (2016), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Arguably Dubcon, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, F/M, Female-Centric, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Not a Joker fan, OBVIOUSLY au but like an au that comes out of the canon, Occult, POV Female Character, Pregnancy, Rape, STILL THE SLOWEST OF SLOW BURNS, Self-Harm, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, attempted suicide, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Harley's still not sure what she's expecting when the chair takes a sharp right and she's wheeled into a small room, but it's certainly not shoulders hunched in on themselves and clad in a white t-shirt; it's not the slight of a vulnerably exposed neck, the soft-sharp jaw, the loosely done ponytail of the woman whose heart Harley had ripped from her chest days (weeks, months, a year, maybe?) ago.</p><p>Her eyes are dull and dead, and Harley wonders how much of the woman she'd been faced with before was actually part of the girl in front of her. It's the same face, the same features; but this girl is plain; no makeup, hardly even an expression behind thin-rimmed circular glasses. The only thing interesting about her is the silver in her ears; studs in her lobes and a bar up higher, in her cartilage, and that isn't even that interesting.</p><p>"I wanted to thank you," the girl starts, and her voice is a soft, quiet sort of thing, but it commands Harley's rapt attention nonetheless. It's dry and sweet, and kind of sexy, and Harley presses her tongue against the backs of her teeth, anticipating.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a second to breathe

 

 _"i swear i'm not a monster darling,_  
but some days i'd like to tear into  
_something tender and claim it_  
_as my own._  
_(i'm not a monster but it seems_  
_only monsters themselves protest_  
_the name, so -)_  
_save me honey, i've told you before_  
_that your kisses are salvation, that_  
_your laughter signals my redemption -_  
_i'm not a monster, sweetheart,_  
_but keep that shotgun under your bed,  
_ _just in case,"_

 

* * *

 

 

The guards were _jerks_.

Gross, pig-nosed, double-chinned, sour-breathed, perverted _jerks_.

They thought she wasn't aware of it; that, or they thought she didn't care. _Poor Crazy Harley Quinn_ , they thought, _won't notice my dick against her ass_. They probably thought she'd like it.

But she didn't, and she _did_ notice; she noticed when they stood at the edge of her cage and palmed themselves, she noticed when they pressed half-hard against her, she saw the way they stared at her, and wasn't oblivious to the groping that came when she was shoved into the chair, strapped down, gagged.

She noticed, and she hated it; but she didn't say anything - she egged them on, encouraged it, smiled for them here and pulled her shirt a little lower there and pressed back every so often. They wanted her, and so long as they kept wanting her, she had the upper hand.

This is what she's thinking as she's forced, yet again, into the wheelchair. It's a metal contraption, padding covered in shitty black latex and angled at the top like a La-Z-Boy would be, except the bend sharp and ninety at the knees. It's uncomfortable as all fucking hell, and it takes four of them to succumb her to it; she takes pride in that, the way they grunt and grit and the sweat that rolls down the temple of the closest while they try to subdue her. It's a routine; they open the cage and have to catch her before anything else, which usually takes two of them and a good ten minutes. One gets her over their shoulder and throws her into the cradle, hard enough that her skull cracks the back and her teeth knock, and they have to try and hold her down before she gets back into a position that'll give her leverage. They never get it the first time; she's stronger than she looks, and manages to shift enough to get the one at her left knee in the groin. She cackles as he groans and then she's slapped, unceremoniously, across the face, heel of palm connecting with jaw in a loud crack of flesh on flesh.

She cackles some more.

"Awe, honey; I'm sorry, I thought you mighta liked it rough," she gives, shifts again, angling up on her elbows to press her lips to the cheek of the man at her head in a loud ' _smack'_. "How do _you_ like it, cowboy?" She asks, and his jaw locks and his eyes glint and she gives him her best smile and suddenly, just like that, he's hers.

The accomplishment - a new jerk on the roster - doesn't mean she doesn't have to fight her grimace when his eyes trail from her face to her tits before she's snapped in the straitjacket.

"You better be sweet to us, Harley; you don't ever get visitors, and next time we could just say _no_ ," the latter of the sentence isn't important - the guards are lackeys, henchmen; they don't make any choices, they don't _get_ to say no and she knows this because she was once the _one_ making the choices - but the first part is. A visitor. She has a visitor?

The only time she's ever been visited is when the Devil Herself was recruiting for her chain-gang of baddies, and Harley hadn't been taken out of her cage for that.

It shuts her up; she falls short on her taunting of the men - stops paying attention to them altogether, pursing her lips and looking through them as she tries to think of who might be trying to see her.

Unbidden but always there, she thinks of _him_ , and immediately bites hard on her back teeth, trying to push it away. She tries hard not to think about him, now. She can't. Not under the harsh, exposed fluorescence of her cage; not once the lights have been turned out. Harley knows she's always being watched - knows about the recording devices trained on her, the night vision cameras; she knows because she once orchestrated them. So she doesn't think about him, not until she's pushed into the showers and has to choke on the way she wants to sob; has to cry in emotionless silence under the spray of cold water. It's the only way to keep her grief to herself, instead of giving it over to be another plaything of the people who hold her. She shuts her eyes hard on the image now; he's dead and gone and couldn't get in to 'visit' her, anyway, if he weren't; she can't can't risk them seeing him on her face, so she shoves green hair and the ungreased creak of a laugh to the back of her mind.

She has family, she supposes; technically. She can conjure them as concepts. Her mother was blonde, like her; like she used to be. Harley remembers her as loving or something like it - the smell of cooking and the gentle pull of brush through hair, trying not to hurt. Neon butterfly clips. Red lips, always red lips, leaving a stain on Harley's cheek that had driven her nuts as a teenager but she'd loved as a baby. A father; a voice like oak, she thinks he was blonde too, but she can't bring up anything real image-wise past the bright orange collar of a jumpsuit and the creepy-crawling of a tattoo behind it. A sister, she thinks; older, beautiful, idealized and idolized and a resounding ache of _gone_. Two brothers; the same age, maybe - the same size; same face, same smiles.

Twins, after all, are predisposed through the mother's genetics.

Harley's still not sure what she's expecting when the chair takes a sharp right and she's wheeled into a small room, but it's certainly not shoulders hunched in on themselves and clad in a white t-shirt; it's not the slight of a vulnerably exposed neck, the soft-sharp jaw, the loosely done ponytail of the woman whose heart Harley had ripped from her chest days (weeks, months, a year, maybe?) ago.

And hey, she's blonde; not as blonde as Harley, but still, who knew?

The room is a small, succinct, square. Three walls are grey concrete, the last, the one Harley's back is settled to, fitted with a one-way window. There's a single bay of fluorescent lights cutting through the center of the ceiling, directly above the sterile metal table Harley's chair is locked into place in front of. The woman sits across from her in a chair that matches the table, and her eyes go a little wide when she looks at Harley. They're blue, but not bright; there's nothing electric in them - it's a stormy colour, clouded over, and Harley's a little breathless staring back at them.

It's a dead colour. Harley loves it.

"Is all that, is it really..." the woman trails off, eyes slipping from Harley's to look up at the guards, one eyebrow quirking up. "Necessary?" She finishes, and there's a gravelly, condescending laugh. Harley grinds her teeth on the gag.

"You've seen her in action; took four of us to get her down, you really want us to let her loose on ya?" Harley snorts; she can't turn her head with the gag connected to the chair, but she does her best to flick her eyes up to the man, getting a glimpse of him in her peripheries. She lunges, throws herself against her restraints - the girl before her doesn't wince, doesn't flinch, but the guard stiffens, and Harley grins best she can with the gag in her mouth.

They're afraid of her; they all are. They're afraid of her as much as they want her, and as disgustingly irritating as the latter is, the power of it is exhilirating.

"She won't hurt me," the girl assures, and Harley's grin dies. Who _is_ she, anyway? What makes her so sure of that? The assurance bothers her; no one _knows_ anything about Harley. It's annoying to have someone think they do. "At least take the gag out," she asks; it's a request, and it's quiet, and this woman seems so subdued and soft that Harley has a hard time reconciling her with any sort of order-giving, let alone the freaky, God-styled fucker she'd quite literally kneeled before. Nonetheless, the guard does as he's asked, and Harley stretches her jaw as soon as she's free of the gagging, rolling her neck to the sum of a satisfying pop, and grins again.

"Whatcha want, honey?" She asks, and the girl glances at her. Those eyes are still dull and dead, and Harley wonders how much of the woman she'd been faced with before was actually part of the girl in front her. It's the same face, the same features; but this girl is plain; no makeup, hardly even an expression behind thin-rimmed circular glasses. The only thing interesting about her is the silver in her ears; studs in her lobes and a bar up higher, in her cartilage, and that isn't even that interesting.

She's pretty, but boring, and Harley's idly hoping that the witch-bitch will take over again, reappear, if only because she was more fun, when it occurs to her that the witch-bitch in question occupied not only the girl's face, but her body.

She'd looked _damn_ good in sparse clothing, and Harley smirks a little, tilting her head.

"Can we be alone?" The girl asks the guard instead of answering Harley, and Harley smiles wider.

"Nope,"

"She's completely restrained; even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to do anything to me," again, there's this tone of complete assurance that really _pisses Harley off_. She grits her teeth, exhaling through her nose in frustration, and finds herself holding hard fists in the confines of the straitjacket when she realizes that, no matter how irritating she is, Harley really _doesn't_ have any inclination to hurt her.

The guard goes, and they're alone, and a hand bearing a simple silver band topped by a single, sad diamond on its third finger spans out on the table.

Engaged. Undoubtedly to the All-American brain-blowing-remote wielding motherfucker they'd tramped through town with. Rick Flag. _Flag_ ; how disgustingly, fittingly Patriotic.

"I wanted to thank you," the girl starts, and her voice is still a soft, quiet sort of thing, but it commands Harley's rapt attention nonetheless. It's dry and sweet, and kind of sexy, and Harley presses her tongue against the backs of her teeth, anticipating.

"What's that?" She asks, head tilts.

"I needed to thank you," the girl reiterates, the single alteration somehow overwhelmingly significant; she leans forward a little, hand coming closer across the table. "You saved my life,"

Harley scoffs, shrugs and shakes her head.

"Sugar," she starts, trying not to eye the hand that's moving like it wants to touch her so she doesn't have to think about if she _wants_ it to touch her or not; "I ripped your heart out of your fucking chest. I wasn't tryin' to save ya, I was tryin' to kill ya," she explains slowly, like to a child, and shakes her head again. "Any accidental survival on your end ain't my fault."

"You weren't trying to kill me," the woman - _Jess? Julie? J-something (always J-something)_ \- interjects, voice a little stronger, a little thicker, than before. "You were trying to kill _it_ ," she elaborates, and the dead in her eyes is a little _less_ dead. "Her,"

Harley does her best to shrug - a herculean effort at casual dismissal in the straitjacket - and rolls her eyes. "Didn't have much of a choice, sweets,"

"You did," the girl is so pointed, even in her soft voice; so convinced of the words, and it's unsettling. Like she knows something Harley doesn't. "You could've gone with her. You didn't; and killing her and saving me are, were, the same thing. She told you she could give you everything you wanted and you did the right thing anyway,"

Harley stops; her hearts pounds up into her throat and beats blood inside her ears. What does the girl remember? Was she _alive_ inside that thing, conscious? Did she see what she made Harley see? Does she _know_?

Harley tries to force herself to relax, hugs herself tighter inside the straitjacket and lets her neck go a little slack, her eyes go a little wide. She's not crazy - she's not she's not she's _not_ \- but she knows how to look crazy, and knows how to scare people. "The right thing, _the right thing_ ," she mocks, drags her voice higher, twists it around itself and rolls her eyes. "You dunno anything, sweet-honey girl; you don't pick brains, you pick graves. You're an arch-eee-ologist, not a psych-eee-ologist," because she remembers this; Harley can't remember her fucking _name_ , but she knows what the woman does, knows how she got that thing inside her in the first place - thinking of it now, Harley knows a lot _about_ her, she just doesn't know _her_.

 "But you are," the girl says, and Harley lets out a breath, lets the psychosis slip from the unnatural tilt of her head and straightens out, lets her expression relax. The calmness of the response means it's obviously not having the effect she wants it to and as nice as the change in routine is - even with the other girl continuing in her vague aura of _annoying_ \- this particular line of conversation is a boring, overdone one. Harley doesn't feel the need to invest any effort into it. Or her.

 "D'you think that scares me, sweetheart? Oh, no, my secret identity ain't a secret - I'm no idiot, I know I'm a myth, I'm a horror story. I'm the normal girl, sweet, innocent girl, who moved to Gotham to try and fix the madman and fell in love with him instead. Got fucked. Fucked up, fucked over; tied up, _bent over_ ," she sighs, drops her head back. Before, she might have enjoyed this a little more - played with the girl, played with the conversation, but she doesn't have the _energy_ for it anymore. Nothing's as fun without knowing he's out there, without knowing how he'd urge her on in it, without knowing he'd enjoy it. It's all boring, and dull, and as nice as the shift in monotony is, the straitjacket is starting to make her shoulders ache. "You've thanked me, cutie," she says, straightens back up. "So what're you still here for, did you come to see Dr. Quinzel, do you want a _consult_?"

 "Why are you so angry?" The question is sudden, disarming and the anger it asks after dissipates in the wake of it, replaced by the culmination of confusion. Why is she angry? _Why_? It should just piss her off more - but she doesn't have the motivation for it, and so she tries again at a shrug.

 It makes her arms hurt more, and she grimaces.

 "Is it because you miss him?" And seriously, what the _fuck_? Is this some new attempt at psycho-analzying her? What's the girl's fucking _angle_? Is Waller here, all stiff-jawed and stiff-lipped, watching through the one way? What do they want from her?

 "What's your name?" Harley asks, because the girl's got too much control of the conversation, and her eyebrow quirks again at the derail.

 Some idle, absent part of Harley rather likes the expression.

"June," she offers, takes a breath and straightens up like she's getting ready to take a blow; "Dr. June Moone."

Harley laughs, unwitting and unintentional and almost real.

"Doctor," she acknowledges; "Well, what accomplished women are we," at this, June smiles.

           

It's a little thing; just a quirk at the corner of her mouth, and Harley's immediately, completely _endeared_. She relaxes, lets the annoyance drift as quickly as it had come up and smiles back.

"You _did_ seem to be the star of your squad, from what I've heard. Better than the boys, even in booty shorts,"

"You noticed my booty?" Harley returns, leaning forward a little again, best she can in the restraints keeping her in the uncomfortably tilted chair. It holds her hips at an awful angle, forces her to tilt her head up in a way that's going to really piss off her neck if she doesn't get out of it soon, but the discomfort is overshadowed by the blush bleeding over June's cheeks. "Dr. Moone, were you looking at my ass?" Harley admonishes, and the girl's smile grows a little as she rolls her eyes up to look at the ceiling.

A heartbeat, and then she's looking at Harley again, composed but still pink in the cheeks. "You were looking at my chest," she tosses back with certainty, and Harley laughs.

"Couldn't help it, it was on show,"

"So was your ass," June rebuttles, and there's a heartbeat of charge where Harley's looking from her eyes to her cheeks to her lips, to her jaw, the line of her neck, and the simplicity of the white tee is actually pretty sexy, she's thinking, when June ruins the moment. "I don't think you're a bad person, Harley,"

Her eyes snap from the dip of the girl's clavicle to the dead-blue, and she glowers.

"Okay," she acknowledges, and that's all she does, and the minutely hopeful expression she's looking at falls.

"Would it be okay if I visited you again?" She asks, like it's up to Harley, like it's _her decision,_ and Harley lets out a breath, stares again at the engagement ring until it moves, fingers curling up and hand pulling back behind the table.

"If you wanna," Harley offers like she doesn't care, even though she thinks she actually _might_ , which is awful and terrible and really rather terrifying, and June just nods, gets up, comes around the table.

Harley's not expecting the hand on her shoulder; it's light for a moment, until it's not, until it squeezes, warm and solid through the straitjacket. She almost _, almost_ leans into it, and then it's gone and there's the sound of rapping on metal before the door creaks open again.

Harley's too dazed by the contact to fight the gag as it's forced back in her mouth, but screws her eyes shut against the dead-blue staring at her as she's rolled out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd be updating every Saturday, but due to the overwhelming amount of positive feedback I wanted to jump the gun a little!
> 
> trigger warning; self harm

The next time Harley 'has a visitor', June comes directly to her cage. It's a big to-do; the opening of the first, second, then third set of doors. Generally Harley takes it as a compliment; the fact they all feel so threatened by her that they need that much _metal_ between her and them, but now it's just irritating, because she can see June - a foot shorter than any of the guards and distinctly feminine even at the distance and behind the windows, looking pointedly out of place in another soft fabric tshirt, this time pale green, against all the dark armouring. But it takes ages for her to get to Harley.

Harley's shoulder had burned and buzzed for a day at least after June had touched her - the first contact she'd had in a long time that wasn't aggressive, or predatory. A touch for the sake of itself was how Harley had classified it, dancing her fingertips over the skin, alone in the dark like she could recreate it.

She isn't sure how long it had been since the first visit, but Harley's been thinking about June a _lot_ , since, replaying the conversation and the expressions, and she's been waking up hoping for dead-blue for days. Now, it's here, right in front of her, and Harley curls fingers around cold metal bars, watching June and her posse of guards come closer.

"Hands off the bars, beautiful," a guard warns, and Harley rolls her eyes, drops her forehead against them instead of letting go.

There's a faint buzzing of electricity before the jolt hits her; shocks through her fingers, up her arms, jitters through her spine and leaves her twitching on the concrete floor.

"What the _fuck_!?" A snappish, sharp inquiry, a smacking sound. Flesh on Kevlar.

It's satisfying to hear, and Harley wants to turn her head and _see_ , wants to know if the quiet girl actually hit a fucking guard, but the connection between her body and her brain seems to have shorted out.

"Ju - Ju -" Harley tries for the name to ask instead, but she's spasming on the syllable and breaks into a laugh, a cackle, jolting and tasting blood in her mouth.

"Ju - Jo, Jone, Joke - " the name she wants is shifting, and she cackles again. The sound is distant even to her, and there's a flickering throb in her chest and over her eyes. Her vision clouds hazily and sparks red, then green and another cackle joins hers, mechanical and creaking. A warning, anticipating chaos.

It keeps going, louder, and brighter, and then she's blinking the bars above her back into sight and her _everything_ hurts, but she's breathing again.

"Harley?" She rolls her head to the side, to the voice, and there's no green hair, no white skin, no red lips. It's just June. Blonde hair is down loose, she's not wearing her glasses, but it's still her. Just June.

"Just June, just June," Harley sing-songs, rolls her head back to look up at the roof and brings her hands to cover her eyes. "Just June," she laughs; it's not a cackle, it's _pathetic_ , and she screws her eyes shut on the tears that want to come, hot and sharp.

"Why did you do that to her?"

"She's not supposed to touch the bars,"

"She was _excited_ , you prick," there's a noise of nonchalance, and Harley sighs.

"Mom, dad," she rolls her head again, follows it with her body until she's on her stomach and rests her cheek against her arm. "Stop _fighting_ ,"

"Are you okay?" June asks, her forehead creased. She's leaning forward, not quite close enough to rest against the bars, and the purse of her lips, a light pink, have a slight downturn to them.

It's _adorable_.

"Peachy, peaches," Harley assures; her throat is raw and her head is still pounding and there's the twitching of zippy-shot aftershocks in her ankles, but she thinks June might not _stay_ if she's not okay, and Harley's been bored.

(She's been bored, and June's all she's been thinking about, and there's some sort of _want, want, want._ )

"Okay," June says, but her lips are still pressed together, and it's a rather ugly expression in that it's so _concerned_. Harley rolls her eyes, pulling herself forward across the floor the best she can, less of an army crawl and more of a drag.

"Turn that frown _upside down_ ," Harley sings, brings a hand up to wiggle fingers like it's a magic trick, and then laughs, dropping back to lie uselessly on the floor. There's a twitching at the corner of June's lips, like she _wants_ to, but the attempt falls flat and Harley rolls her eyes. "That was awful. Anyway -" she breaks off, heaves a heavy breath; "Why ya back, cutie? Don't think you got anymore thanking to do,"

"I asked if I could come back," June gives, and Harley rolls her eyes again, exhales through her nose.

"That wasn't my question, and that ain't an answer," she rolls again, trying to stretch out her arms, trying to get the feeling back in her legs again, and considers June from upside down.

She's got a little scar; just a little white puckering of a thing, at the top corner of her collarbone. It looks inconsequential; but Harley knows anatomy, and her nose scrunches as she runs through it, considers how much blood the girl would have lost, how quick. Wonders how she got out of it; who saved her, who fixed her.

If anyone's ever kissed it better.

"I thought you might like some company," June offers, and Harley feels an inkling of _something_ , a squeezing in her ribs, a rush of almost-too-hot, so she cackle-laughs.

"I got plenty of company, June baby. Me and the boys have a great time, don't we?" The harrumphing noise she gets from the guard is almost comical, and Harley grins wide, bringing a hand up to hide her mouth from him and stage-whisper at June. "Their balls are pink and blue when they go home, though," she informs her, using her free hand to tug at her hair, all braided over her shoulder in a cotton candy coloured catch-all. "They think I'm a _tease_ ,"

"Ya are a tease, slut," the guard shoots, and he's not as _fun_ as Griggs is. She almost misses the other man; gross as he was - and he was one of the worst - but at least he had some actual banter. He was stupid, but his wit stood above 'slut' - Harley doesn't get a chance to lament, though, because June is shooting the man daggers.

"Don't call her that," she says, defensive, protective, and damn, Harley might just be a little smitten with her Knight-in-blonde-armour. Or maybe the Knight's a little smitten with her; either way, that squeezing _hot_ curls up between her ribs again and Harley has to fight to take a breath around it, guilt settling contrast in her stomach like ice-water rocks.

What her Puddin' don't know won't hurt him - and he ain't knowin' much of anything, these days.

"She's a prisoner, you shouldn't be looking at her like that," June goes on in her admonishment, and the guard shrugs.

"She asks for it; splays herself out for us,"

"How can't she? She's next to naked; maybe if you gave her more clothes..."

"She just takes 'em off."

June stares at the guard a moment longer, dead-blue lit a little brighter, posture as aggressive as she can get it curled up on the floor, and then the fight goes out of her and defeated shoulders turn back to Harley.

"Are they taking advantage of you?"

Harley laughs, and laughs, and then laughs a little more; because _yes_ , she supposes - technically they are, but she's not about to admit that in front of one of them. Then she loses all her power. "Not anymore than I ask 'em to," she decides on, and the pity the answer earns her immediately pisses her off. "Hey, stop that," she pushes up on her elbows, points a shaky finger at June through the bars. "Don't look at me like that. I get bored in here, and the boys gimme some _hard and fast_ entertainment," there's a sort of chuckle from the bonehead to the side, and Harley smirks, but the expression drops at the horror etched into June's features. "I'm _fine_ ," Harley assures, her tone dropping the lilt into an attempt at softer, maybe comfort. "Quit worryin'," she means it to be a little harsh, but it's just _quiet_ , and finally, June nods.

"I brought you some things," she gives, and pulls an oversized purse from behind her, one Harley hadn't noticed on her way in, focused on her face as she had been. "They said you like to read, but didn't say what, so I guessed," it's like a bag of tricks; she pulls out some magazines - Angelina Jolie splashed across the cover of one, Leonardo Dicaprio another, and a blonde Harley doesn't recognize on the third, smiling next to a headline proclaiming the magazine can teach you to have a better orgasm. Harley snorts, wiggling her index finger at it.

"You havin' problems at home, sweetie?" She teases, and much to her surprise, June doesn't blush or duck away. She just rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"That's not the article that caught my attention," she says, reaches to tap her finger against the headline in the bottom corner. _Wedding Planning; How NOT to Become Bridezilla_. Harley frowns.

"Right," she shrugs, turns her attention to Angelina Jolie. "She's hot, ain't she? Always thought she and I might be good friends," she muses, ignoring the way June's looking at her - ignoring more pointedly the way the girl is worrying her engagement ring, spinning the thing back and forth on her finger like it's not quite the right fit.

 _Stupid_. Harley thinks; _stupid guy didn't even get it sized first_.

Another book appears; this one paperback and looking a little well loved, dark-covered, the title done in stark white against it. Harley immediately laughs; loud and involuntary.

"You _gotta_ be kidding me, honey; they let you bring that in here?" June smiles a little, now; just a half of one, the sweet, small thing Harley's been thinking about since she left the last time. June shrugs.

"It's not like it's dangerous; it's just porn," she gives, and the word surprises Harley, given so easily from the mouth she keeps expecting to belong to a level of innocence. She doesn't know why she thinks that; June was fucking _possessed_ , after all. By an evil, other-dimension witch demon, no less. She's not exactly a Catholic school girl.

Then again, _Harley_ was a Catholic school girl a few lives ago. She supposes it doesn't really stand for much.

"I thought it might be entertaining, I don't know; it's a page turner," June shrugs, and Harley laughs, and it's genuine and earns her just _that_ much more of a smile from the other girl, just enough for the constriction to squeeze a little tighter.

Oddly, against instinct, the pressure feels better the tighter the grip.

"You're all surprises," Harley gives, and June's eyebrows snap together, like she's confused, but Harley doesn't explain the assumption of innocence against the abject  _lack_ of it and June doesn't ask, instead pulling out another book. "Oh!" Harley exclaims, reading the title upside down and elbow-dragging herself closer to the edge of the cage to try and see the copy. "I _love_ Jane Austen!"

"Harley, bars!" June presses forward to her, book dropped to the ground, hands hovering inches from the bars Harley's fingers have secured themselves around again. A heartbeat, and Harley lets go, hands spanning back to the concrete to push herself a little bit back.

"Right," she nods, disarmed by her own reaction; the easy obedience in it, even though she doesn't think that was really an _order_ , or even a request - a warning, maybe, but it hadn't been hostile. Either way, Harley's not really one for _heeding_ warnings. "Wouldn't want to traumatize ya anymore, might not come back," June frowns, shakes her head once.

"I was more worried about _you_ ," she says, quiet and slow, like she's explaining it to a child, and suddenly _Harley_ is blushing, can feel the heat in her face.

She hasn't seen herself in a long time; there isn't anything reflective in the cage, but she knows her skin is leeched of colour. The acid saw to that, bleaching her from toe to top - so she knows that when she blushes, it's like the red cheeks on a porcelain doll. Cherry bright.

June's frown smoothes out and her hand jerks forward, then drops back to the concrete.

"Sense and Sensibility is my favourite," June says, and Harley clears her throat.

"I always liked Pride and Prejudice. Had a thing for Mr. Darcy,"

"I always had a bigger crush on Lizzie,"

 

Harley's not sure how long June stays but when she leaves, she promises to bring the next Fifty Shades book and the first few of the Harry Potter series with her next time, and Harley starts in on the gossip mags first. She flicks through them, reading each and every article and grasping at the figments of _outside_ it offers her until she comes to a page full of models in bridal gowns, one circled in sharpie.

Harley traces the figure of the model with the tip of her finger, taps along the page.

The emotion it drags up is a familiar one; _murderous_ , but the odd rush of something more panicked, more uncomfortable, making her ribs feel pointy in the confines of her chest and neck stiff and painful, is new. Well, not _new_ , but different; it's not the same outright rush of anger she's felt before. This is sadder; more defeated.

She's jealous, and closes her eyes against the flash of green that the realization of the word conjures only to find the face she'd tried to reject brilliantly bright in her mind's eye. Except, it's wrong; green hair is long, sharp features are feminine, and someone is whimpering.

Harley realizes it's her, and slams her head back once against the bars, trying to rid herself of the picture and the awful pitching in her throat.

It's satisfying. Pain throbs from the base of her skull, through her jaw, and she does it again. She digs her fingers against the gloss of the magazine page; pulls, feels paper tear, and drives her head back again, thinking of June in a white dress and wedding rings that don't fit.

Blood starts to run hot down her neck and someone shouts at her, so she does it again; and again, teeth gritting against the metal clang echoing in her temples. Her perch on the edge of the bed is precarious, and she drives her head back again, letting out a laugh - then again, again, again, _again_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in the car early and all day tomorrow driving home from BC, so I'm posting this a few hours early!

June keeps visiting. Harley's best guess is that it's weekly; she does her best to count the sleeps (the nights, she doesn't sleep much) but it's hard to keep track inside her own head and they won't give her anything to write with.

What Harley does know is that it's always early and June always stays late; sometimes they eat lunch together, though Harley gets prison food and June brings her own. Harley appreciates that the most - not that she'll ever tell June that - because the guards don't force a feeding tube on her when June is there, and Harley _hates_ the tube. They drug her to do it, and as much as she enjoys the chance to get close enough to touch; kick and scratch and _bite_ \- she doesn't like being drugged, she doesn't like being overpowered, and the tube fucking _hurts_.

They insist it's her own fault; that her refusal to eat solid food herself means they have to, because they have to keep her alive. They don't listen when she says that she didn't refuse, she _wanted_ to eat the real food - she just forgets how, sometimes.

That's another way June helps; Harley gets a demonstration, and with the laughing (even Harley can hear how her own gets less and less manic and starts to meet June's in something like sincerity), and the talking and the half-smiles Harley finds herself fighting for, it goes fast, and suddenly the food is all gone and Harley feels full without feeling sick.

They talk about books, mostly; Harley does her best to finish everything June brings for her before the next visit, but it's hard when she can't count the days and doesn't want to end up without. Still, they trade off, and it becomes it's own weird little book club, and June starts bringing less tabloid magazines and more National Geographics after Harley spends nearly an entire visit trying to get every tidbit of reality that she can out of the girl. She's not allowed to bring newspapers; neither of them know why, but Harley resists throwing a fit about it. She's trying to be less _hostile_ towards the guards in the wake of June's visits, when one had been cut pointedly short for nothing but punishment.

Harley had thought it was really stupid, given she'd been bearing the _real_ punishment in the form of a black eye, but she'd tried to stop lashing out so much after that.

 _Tried_.

Harley doesn't know how many visits it's been when the conversation lulls and June sighs, a soft, sad sound, and Harley looks up to find her staring at the floor.

"You okay, cutie pie?" Harley asks, and dead-blue meets bright but they're not so dead; they're searching, sort of desperate, and the earnestness makes Harley feel winded.

"They told me you really hurt yourself, after the first time I came here to visit," June says, quiet; it could be an accusation but it's more of a question, and Harley runs a self conscious hand up the back of her skull, fingertips brushing the bumps of a stitch-healed scar.

"That was nothin', sweetie," Harley assures, drops her hand to give a dismissive wave. "Don't worry about it,"

"I _do_ worry about it, Harley," June cuts in, the sharpest Harley thinks she's ever heard her. Even as Enchantress, there'd been a sort of lullaby quality to the way she spoke; her voice had always been powerful and echoing, frightening even, but never sharp. "I worry about you," she insists, clarifies, and Harley presses her lips together, shifts from what had been a lounging position to sit cross-legged and wrap her arms around herself.

June watches her; confused concern marring features in way that makes Harley's heart beat faster, into her throat. It's uncomfortable; it's panicky, and Harley doesn't _like_ it, holds herself tighter.

 _I don't think you're a bad person_.

"They said you were clutching one of the pages of the magazine I gave you, the one with the wedding dresses," June goes on, and Harley shuts her eyes against the conversation, tries to shut it out, tries to shut _her_ out. "I'm sorry; I should never have brought that in. I know - I knew... I _saw_ , and I should've known not to bring something like that for you," Harley screws her eyes shut tighter, shakes her head.

I know. I knew. I saw.

 _She knows she knows she knows she knows_.

She knows and she's _wrong_.

"I was jealous," Harley gives, feels breathless trying to get the words out, keeps her arms around her torso and her eyes screwed shut.

"I know," Harley shakes her head again, doesn't get it, doesn't get it at _all_ , because what's she talking about? Does she know _all_ of it? Is Harley that transparent, that obvious? It's one thing to know something she saw - it's one thing for her to have been in the vision Enchantress had supplied right along with her; there wasn't any way for Harley to hide that from her, but can she really see through everything Harley can't even figure out so easily? "It wasn't fair of me. I didn't think, before I brought it in; I didn't think of you thinking of _him_ ,"

_Oh._

Harley wants to laugh; June thinks she's jealous of _her_ , thinks she's angry at _her_ , think's she's jealous that she's got the guy that loves her and the ring on her finger and the wedding, and probably the house with the white picket fence and the extra room the real estate agent kept calling a nursery. June thinks she's jealous because June has _normal_ , instead of being jealous because normal has June. 

"It's okay," Harley breathes, smiles with her eyes still closed. "It's okay," she says again, presses her tongue between her lips and then bites hard on her back teeth, swallowing.

"Harley -" she breaks off, and it edges on desperate in a way that has Harley opening her eyes. "Do you want to talk about it? About what you saw? About _him_?"

Harley laughs, and hears the hysteria in it. She drops her arms from her body, shrugs big and chuckles a little more, drops to lay back on the floor without control, so her body comes down too fast and her head bounces off the concrete. She laughs harder.

"Shit," is the mutter, and Harley brings her hands back up to her face, covers her eyes again, laughing into the heels of her palms. "Let me in,"

"Ma'am, we can't do that,"

"Let me _in_ ,"

"Ma'am, despite your little tea-talks, that woman's a psychopathic mass-murderer. She's freaky strong and she's fucking crazy, we ain't lettin' you in there,"

"She's not going to hurt me, you moron, and she's not a psychopath," the guard laughs, and Harley laughs, and laughs, and wants to cry. "Let me _in_ ,"

"Do you love your Soldier Boy?" Harley interrupts, lilts her voice high even as it muffles on the insides of her hands.

"Harley?"

"Do you love your Soldier Boy?" She repeats, slowly pulling herself to sit back up. "Rick Flag, Dick Flag - shitty scruffy beard, flickery eyes, condescending bonehead boy with the American flag shoved so far up his ass you taste it when he puts his tongue in your mouth?" June's looking at her, dead-blue all wide and worried and _pissing Harley off_.

"Harley..."

"Do. You. Love. Him?" Harley grits the words out with all the hard she can muster; all the mean. June just stares at her, and stares and stares and stares, and then she nods.

"Yes,"

Harley laughs, a cackle of a thing, stands up and shakes her head; feels the ramification of the skull-bounce on concrete in the movement when her vision swims and she stumbles, just a step, to the left. "You hesitated," she accuses, hissing. "You don't. You don't love him. I think you're scared; you been places he ain't ever gonna be - you've done things he'll _never_ understand. You oughta be locked up in here right next to me, no matter what he says, how he says it ain't your fault, and you fuckin' _know_ it," Harley sees the clench of June's jaw, and how dare she? How  _dare_ she come in here and talk to Harley like she cares, like Harley matters, like June wants to understand or something stupid like that - and then get to walk away unscathed, leave Harley to sit and think and obsess over every word and look and the touch to her shoulder from weeks, months, centuries ago, while she goes back and makes love to her Soldier Boy?

"You're one of us, now. You're always gonna _be_ one of us. There ain't no going back from what we've done, what you've done. You belong here, not with him, and you know it, and so when he got down on one knee and told you how much he loved you, how he wanted you forever, you said yes 'cause you knew you didn't deserve that kinda life and knew ya wouldn't get another chance," Harley rests her palms against the bars, curls her fingers, drops her forehead.

"Harley, let go of the bars," June says, soft, a little pleading, and it makes Harley ache somewhere under all the anger and the mean, but she rocks her head, gives the bars a shake.

"Fuck you,"

"Harley, please," her voice barely catches above a whisper, and Harley doesn't get to give the bars another before she's thrown across the cage by the force of her own spasming.

 

Even if she'd wanted to, Harley can't count the days after that; they keep her drugged and lashed to her bed, which she thinks is excessive and stupid, but she knows by the time they let her up that June should have been back by now.

She doesn't show up that week, or the next, and Harley's rereading her last drop off - Hemingway - for the fifth time when the wall of the prison is blown off.

Despite the name thrown across the vest, after all her imaginings and hallucinations, Harley half-expects it to _be_ June when the mask is pulled off.

She doesn't show her surprise; it's not really surprise anyway, and it doesn't really matter. The thrill of fear that's almost louder than the elation at the sight of her man, _not_ dead, the part of her that's begging to stay in the cage, begging to stay out of his arms - the part that's setting off every fire alarm it has - she ignores it all on autopilot.

Harley hardly thinks about it before she goes with him; it wouldn't matter, wouldn't make a difference.

 

They're both ghosts, after all; they're both just haunting her.


	4. and i said, that's the point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late; I decided last minute to rewrite the last half, which is unbeta-ed.
> 
> Thank you for the support and, thank you for all the feedback! Please, keep the comments coming!
> 
> trigger warning; abuse, rape

"You guys have to get her back,"

Rick's eyebrows lift, eyes widen a little as he tilts his head - a full expression of 'yeah, _duh_ ,' at June's words. He opens the liquor cabinet, pulling their open-for-months-but-barely-touched bottle of rum from it and raising an eyebrow, tilting it out to her in offering.

June shakes her head.

"Waller's already on it. Stupid, on our end, to think he was dead - don't think the man, _if_ he's a man, can even be killed. We stopped lookin' for him," the words all come out in the Louisiana drawl she started hanging off of in the first place - the roundness of the consonants, the way his lips cut the vowels. June had been obsessed with it. When she had first heard Harley speak, she'd thought it was the same accent - it had taken her the second sentence to hear the Brooklyn bite, and felt stupid from then on for thinking it could have been anything but New York sharp.

Her fingers tap along the edge of the counter; she feels oddly disconnected, trying to process that she might not hear the too-high-hoarse lilt again. Rick opens a can of coke. "She was half the reason the Task Force even worked; 'rest of 'em all like her. Freaky, really; we thought Lawton'd lash out when we told him, were ready for a fight. Just sat down on the end of his bed, put his head in his hands, didn't say nothin'," and June gets it, runs her teeth along her lip and _understands_ \- there's a distant sense of relief to it, because she doesn't think Harley should be in that cage. Prison, yes, maybe; but she doesn't need to be so _isolated_ , and so without privacy, on show all the time. Part of her wants the girl to get her freedom - but not with _him_. June doesn't think 'freedom' is even the right word for it. "Maybe he's got a thing for her," Rick muses, air hollowing against the inside of the can as he pours fizz into the glass tumbler. He sets it down, aluminum clink on granite.

 _Maybe he's got a thing for her_.

June presses her lips together, clenches her jaw, stills her hand.

Rick doesn't notice.

"Doubt she's gonna be much use for a while after we pick her up, though. Gonna have to recover from whatever we gotta do to get her down and get her in," June's fingers start tapping again, quicker than before, watching Rick shift to hop up backwards onto the counter and take a sip.

It was this; the idly playful aspect to him that fit so strangely _well_ against the professional, duty-minded man that had really pulled her in. He'd made her laugh. He'd made her feel safe. Sexy, secure, loved, happy, hopeful. He'd made her feel a lot of things; right now, he's just making her feel frustrated. He swings his legs, shoulders hunched in the terrible posture of someone who's always been tall, and June pulls her fingers into a fist on the granite.

"Do you really have to hurt her so badly to get her in?" She asks, trying not to sound as urgently irritated as she feels, and Rick gives her another eyebrow-quirk of ' _duh_ '.

"She doesn't come easily. Only reason we got her in the first place is cause the Joker left her for dead, halfway through a windshield, underwater. Batman pulled her out; she's impossible to catch when she's moving,"

"Can't you just..." June trails off, gives a minute shake of her head and closes her eyes. There's a beat; she's thinking about the absurdity of Harley submitting to the militia sent after her, offering her wrists for handcuffs, and a hand, warm and calloused, comes to rest against her neck. Rick's thumb brushes her jaw.

"Honey, you okay?" June takes a breath, buries the idea that perhaps _she_ could get Harley to come back easily.

"It just doesn't seem _fair_ to me. You just told me he left her for dead _underwater_ , but he breaks into a secret prison in a secret town to get her back? After being blown up in a helicopter, mind you; and it would be different if she'd gotten away with him then -" _it'd be different because I'd be dead_ , June thinks, but doesn't say. Rick doesn't like to talk about it; she's not sure if that's because he thinks _she_ doesn't, but it's reached the point where he clams up so much and gets so definitively 'I'd have saved you, I'd have saved you' that she _doesn't_ want to talk about it with him. "Then it would have been her choice. I'd get it. But she didn't _get_ a choice, this time,"

"A choice? Baby, you really think she'd have decided to stay in that hellhole if she had the option?"

"She chose to come back to it," June says, slow and even but edging on sharp, and Rick's eyebrows snap together.

"She thought the Joker was dead, she didn't have anywhere else to go,"

"Exactly!" June pulls away from him, throwing her hands out in the exclamation and then bringing them back, heels of her palms pressing to her forehead. It's just after six on a Monday and the remnants of their dinner; vegetarian burritos, stacked next to the sink and waiting to be washed. There's a cherry pie she made three days ago half-finished sitting a little ways away, brought out with the intention of being finished in front of the TV, probably while watching Jeopardy under the knit quilt from Rick's grandmother.

 _There ain't no going back from what you've done_.

June wants to throw up.

"He's completely isolated her. He completely isolated her in the _first_ place - she's completely fucked and hopeless without him, she has no idea who to be or how to be. Her entire identity is wrapped up in him. And you've read the files; you know what he's done to her - we know what she's _told_ us about. He electrocuted her, for god's sake, after he broke out of Arkham,"

"After _she_ broke him out of Arkham. She's not some battered victim, June. She's killed people,"

"So have I!" June snaps, voice hitting high in her exasperation, anger edging at the corners. She can feel it; viscous, black and thick, pouring into the holes between her joints, making her stiff. She drops her hands from her forehead, flexing her fingers, knuckles feeling like ungreased gears.

"That's not the same," Rick says, soft; trying to be comforting, trying to be reassuring. He's trying to be her partner in this, her fiancé, her husband, and she wants to smack him. The temptation of violence is overwhelming, the drive to have flesh against flesh, to dig her nails in as they come past his cheek, rip out skin, watch blood well in shallow wounds.

_You oughta be locked up in here right next to me, no matter what he says, how he says it ain't your fault, and you fuckin' know it_

"It's exactly the same," she breathes, fingers locked in fists at her side, trying not to picture the way blood would look leaking into his mouth, staining perfect white teeth. "I was... possessed, whatever you want to call it. It's exactly the same; except it's not magic, it's human. It's the physical embodiment of human evil sitting in the back of her brain, spitting poison in her ear. She'd started changing - I read the files too; the ones on Harley _and_ the ones on Harleen. I could see the remnants of her; half a year away from him with company that wasn't fantasizing about raping her and she was starting to _come back_. She needs help, Rick," June's voice has faltered by the time she reaches the end of the sentence, dropped away into something weak, and she lets a breath out. The liquid anger is sticky, hot and suffocating in her ribcage, but she inhales around it, flexing her fists again and bringing them up to lock her arms tight against her chest.

She's trying to stop thinking about his blood.

"You stopped visiting,"

It's not working.

" _I_ started making things worse. I said she needed help, not to be constantly taunted by someone who has everything she wants," she grits her teeth, presses her tongue along the backs of them and tries to breath slowly through her nose, tries to avoid the way she's _not panicking_ at the distantly familiar feeling of death-cold creeping up the back of her neck. "You weren't there. You didn't see what I did; all she wanted was to be normal. She wanted to get married to a man that loved her, have babies; she wanted big hair rollers and a _tracksuit_ first thing in the morning, for God's sake," the cold creeps away and heat pricks up her jaw instead, into her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. The icy anger melts, boils, shoots up into the base of her throat to pull into a ball she can't swallow around.

"June, baby..." a warm hand on her arm, the other on her shoulder, both pulling her in; in between his knees, into his arms. He massages his thumb against the back of her neck, runs his hand in a circle between her shoulder blades, and she relaxes; lets herself get pulled into the love of him. "I'll talk to Waller, I'll see if we can get her help," he offers, and June nods against the crook of his neck, the fabric of his t-shirt already starting to soak through with tears. She drops her arms from her body, slides her hands up his chest, feels the solid heat of him, around his torso and to his back so they're pulled flush. "Honey?" He asks after a moment, pulling away a little and pressing his lips to her temple, her forehead.

"Yeah?" June prompts, voice cracking around the still-present lump.

"You're not gonna start wearing tracksuits, are ya?"

She laughs; it's a sudden bark of a thing that sounds more like a sob, and she smiles despite herself, shaking her head. "God no," she gives, and his expression of faux-seriousness cracks into a smile as he nods, pulls her back in.

"Thank the baby Jesus; possession and shit are one thing, but I dunno if I coulda handled that," he mutters as he kisses her forehead once more. June bark-sobs again, the sound falling apart into a confusing amalgamation of laugh-crying as he hugs her, tight and solid and safe.

 

 
    
    
    ✖
    
    
    ✖

 

J's latest hideout is white. Carpet, bedsheets, furniture, bathroom tile. Toe to top, it's blinding - _'It's like a Colgate commercial, Puddin'!' 'Yeah? Four out of five dentists recommend... the one and only, Harley Quinn!' -_ that was when he'd hit her. That was when it had stopped being white; when she'd spit blood, leaking from the hole on the inside of her cheek. _'You gotta floss more, Harley-pie,'_

It's been three days, and she pokes her tongue along sharp sting of the healing hole now, standing in the now grotesquely stained bathroom. The shower has the worst of it; the handcuffs still dangle from the top of the door, glinting jeweled red under the lights, and dry blood smatters the inside of the frosted glass door.

She's not sure how long she hung there.

She's not sure she cares.

He's angry with her, and she deserves it.

Harley got caught. She got herself locked up, and J, Mr. J, her Puddin', almost died trying to save her the first time; it's a horrendous thought. She knows, she _knows_ , their lives aren't equal. His is, always was and always will be worth more than hers - to trade them would have been _wrong_. It would have sent the universe into a tailspin, unbalanced, reeling from the loss of him.

There was no point to her existence without him. Somewhere, between Belle Reve and the blonde witch-bitch, she'd managed to forget that.

He's reminding her, and she's glad of it. She _deserves_ it; she left him alone - he'd been by himself for months. Without her, he had no one to talk to, no one to trust. He's angry because he was sad; he's angry because he loves her so much, and the proof of it is blotched purple and blue around her eye.

_Bad Harley, bad girl, leavin' your baby like that._

She presses ginger fingers to the blooming of blood, mesmerized by it. Injury scatters her body the same way her blood scatters the hideout; she can't do much about the bruises, and they stand particularly groteseque against the white of her skin, but she's managed to wash most of the blood off, finished stitching closed the worst of the open wounds. One, a seam along her ribcage, is going to scar.

It's good. She's glad; she's been stupid - she _is_ stupid, and every ache and stab of pain seamed along her joints is a reminder; but the pain is going to fade, and the white-pink line running from the center of her chest to her right flank is going to make sure she _never forgets again_. Who she is. What he is. Why they are.

"Harley-pie!"

His shout is a dull stab of a sound, a creaking, and Harley winces at herself in the mirror. "Stupid, _stupid_ ," she mutters to herself, jams the base of her palm to her forehead. "C'mon, _pussy_ ," she snaps, drops her hand and tries for her best smile in the mirror, shifts it, readjusts, finds something less gargoyle and more real.

He's angry with her, and she deserves it.

The door slams into the wall, and Harley sees him in the mirror, makeup-free and shirtless.

He's _beautiful;_ it was his face that captured her, years that feel like days ago. The regality in the line of his nose, the jutted corners of his jaw. Blue eyes that spark sea-coloured under neon green. His bangs hang undone now, just above his brow, and he grins at her.

Of its own accord, her own smile slits wider.

"Puddin," she gives, brushes the knuckles of her index and middle finger along her shoulder to flip her hair back as she turns to him.

"Gorgeous," he assesses; "My gorgeous, _gorgeous,_ Harley Quinn," he comes in, and if she hadn't already been ordered not to touch him without permission she'd reach out, brush her fingers along the planes of his stomach, over the smile etched black into his skin. As it is, he steps into her; presses himself flush against her, warm all over her, still naked from her shower. His hands drift her flank, span wide against her back, and she tucks herself tighter into him, ducks her head to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. "I missed you, baby," he gives, drifts his hand lower to grab. "This _ass_ ," his other hand comes up, takes her jaw, runs thumb over her lips. "This _mouth -_ goddamn, this mouth can do things," She grins, takes his index finger between her teeth, traces it with her tongue.

They haven't had sex since she's gotten back. There's been other things for him to take care of; but she takes the chance, spans her hands against his breastbone and up, to curl her fingers over her shoulders then higher, drag blunt nails along his neck.

"You want it, Harls?" His voice throws low, a growl in his chest. He runs his fingers over her ass, to the small of her back, flattens his hand to hold her in place as he rocks his hips into her. "You want _me_?"

"Always, Puddin," she nods, too fast, too keen; she _does_ want but she also knows if they can get here, they can move past it.

He'll forgive her, he always does.

He grins; a grand grimace, the metal in his mouth glinting, and she smiles back, ducks her head to press her lips along his jaw, his neck.

His hand slides into her hair; pets, soothing, encouraging - and then grabs; wraps fingers tight and wrenches her back.

She grinds her teeth on the pain - he hates it when she cries out - and tries to look at him from the new angle. His mouth is a locked, straight line, eyes slit and narrowed, and Harley tries to take a breath.

"Celibacy..." he starts, presses his tongue between his lips, "Is _not_ for men like me. But see, Harley honey... you're my girl. My Queen. I don't want anybody but you, don't wanna touch anybody but you - couldn't get it up for anybody but you; and trust me, _I tried_ ," he inhales, the heave of it lifting his shoulders, and something stings in the center of her chest.

Betrayal. Guilt. It back and forths, hot and cold, all thick, all choking, tight around her lungs.

"D'you know what that does to a man? When he can't perform?" He drags his tongue along his teeth, pink along metal. "Couldn't let anyone know 'bout that, of course. Baby, the girls I had to kill 'cause of you, 'cause of how much I love you, how I can't have anyone _but_ you..." he trails off, blue eyes wide as he stares at her. "Do you _understand_ , Harley-pie?"

Harley does her best to nod, and the flat of his hand connects hard on her cheekbone.

"You can't," he moves, gets in close, so his words are low and grating in her ear; "You _can't_ understand what it was like, missing you, wanting you - but I'm gonna help ya," he pulls back, gestures down with his free arm. "Take 'em off, sweetie, see what I got for ya,"

 _I don't want anybody but you_.

The words ring in her head, an ebb of warmth, comfort. She wraps herself in them, tucks them against her chest to slow down her heart.

He's angry, and she deserves it.

She fumbles blindly for his belt, pulls at it, unbuttons his pants. All the while, he stares at her; she wants desperately to close her eyes, but she doesn't - she holds his gaze, watches the feral way he breathes; short and quick, a growl low in his throat all the while.

He's only half hard, and he tilts his head when his pants drop. "Gimme a hand," he requests, grit on gravel. She runs her knuckles along him, curls her fingers around him. It's familiar; it's automatic - she knows how to make him feel good, and his eyes close a little more, forehead creases. His grip on her head slacks and she takes the chance of leaning in, kissing his jaw again, his cheek, his collar.

The moment her knees bend, however, he grips her again - fingers curl back in her hair and he grabs her by the hip, spins her.

"Puddin' -wait - J!" She protests before she can think not to; and she shouldn't, it just makes him angrier and she _knows_ that. Her hips hit the edge of the counter and his hand cradles the back of her skull.

She sees the mirror coming; he snaps her head into it, glass shattering into her forehead, and then forces her down the rest of the way over the counter. This time, she bites her lip on the protest, screws her eyes shut to keep the glass out of them.

"You're gonna stay like this, legs spread for me, and I'll fuck you  _till_ you understand," he hisses, and she feels the warmth of his knees press against the insides of her own. One hand is bruising tight on her hip, the other still clutching the back of her head, and then he's pushing, forcing himself inside her. It _hurts_ ; she feels her teeth break through her lip as she tries not to cry out, and he moves hard, fast, in-out, in-out, breathing heavy and hot against the back of her neck.

Despite herself, she whimpers, and he wrenches her head back. "Stupid little girl," he breathes hot against her neck, moves his hand to grab her by the throat. "Stupid Harley, _bad_ Harley,"

He's angry, and she deserves it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter updates may be two or three times a week from here on out based on chapter length and how quickly i can write and edit. this is a short one, but next update will be up on saturday morning!

For three months, June looks for Harley. She scours the online Gotham newspaper every morning to a continual sum of _nothing_. No sign of the Joker, no sign of Harley - it's radio silence, the Clown Prince and his consort have given up their Empire; and they don't show up anywhere else. She scours every paper she can find, gets a Twitter just to search it. There's nothing. June can't find a trace of either of them anywhere and Rick is still heading the Task Force, not on the squad looking for Harley, so he knows about as much as June does.

They wedding plan. June's always wanted something small - she can go for the white dress and would love Rick in a tux, sure, but his family is _huge_ , and Southern, and excruciatingly traditional. Especially his mother. Pleasantly plump and a few inches shorter than June, Daisy Flag carries all the confident serenity of a woman who's successfully raised nine kids into functional society, and now luxuriates in her role as doting grandmother and matriarch. The woman is wonderful, but exhausting; sweet, but draining, and when she and _June's_ mom get together... well, she's glad they get along and all, but June is continually outnumbered.

It's on yet another lunch date where June's trying to avoid getting backed into a corner; this time about the service, because June's a woman of Science and can't believe there's a God that would allow the horrors she's seen (committed), but the Flags are Catholic where it counts, that her phone rings.

AMANDA WALLER flashes up on the screen, the little devil emoji flickering next to her name, and June stills her hand flat where it wants to bunch in the tablecloth.

"June?"

"It's work, mom - Mrs. Flag, I'm so sorry," she shoots them both her best wide-eyed apology, ignoring Rick's mom's insistence of 'It's Daisy, honey; _you're_ going to be Mrs. Flag' and slides her phone open on her almost-run out the door.

"Are you alone?" Is the greeting; no hello, no introduction - June glances down the street, fitting her free hand in the bend of her other elbow, arm across her chest, and shrugs.

"As good as," she gives, flicking her eyes from the man passing in front of her on the sidewalk and turning to face the brick wall of the restaurant.

"We've found Harley Quinn," Waller informs her; emotionless, matter-of-fact, like she doesn't know the words are going to wind her. June chokes, closing her eyes and giving her balance face-first to the wall. She inhales, long and slow, through her nose, and runs her forehead against the rough of the bricks to try and ground herself.

"Where was she? How?"

 _Shockingly_ , she's ignored. "You developed a relationship with her before her escape, and we'd like you to find out everything she's done with the Joker in the last three months. Invisibility is a cause of much more alarm than explosions with these people," June doesn't care about fact finding - but she's being _told_ to see Harley instead of having to ask for it, and she takes a shaky breath, stepping back from the wall with a nod.

"Right, I'm at -"

"We know where you are," Amanda cuts her off, and something spasms between June's shoulder blades - anger, irritation, fear - she shrugs it away, stepping up to the edge of the sidewalk to look down the road.

Sure enough, there's a sleek black car turning the corner, windows tinted dark and looking completely out of place on the suburban strip mall street.

June rolls her eyes. She's not surprised - vexed as she is with the confirmation that they're watching her, she's _not_ any kind of shocked, but she does think that a branch of the Government so defined by secrecy would be able to pick something more _subtle_.

"I'll meet you at the door in half hour," the phone clicks dead before June can ask after the words - Belle Reve is at least an hour away from here - and she stares at it a moment, before the car pulls up to the sidewalk in front of her.

She takes a breath, shoving her phone back in her pocket and giving the black windows a nod and a gesture of 'one second' that she's hoping doesn't give off how badly her hands are shaking before ducking back inside.

"I'm so sorry, I have to go, it's an emergency," June gives before either of the women can start in on their questions about how anything at a University can be an emergency, fingering two twenties from her wallet and setting them on the table. "This should cover me, I think; again, I'm so sorry," she grasps Rick's mom's hand quickly, and ducks in to press her lips to her mother's cheek. "I'll make it up to you, how about family dinner at our house on Sunday night?" She doesn't even know if Rick will be home by Sunday night - he's been gone two days already - but she can cross that bridge later, and this will keep them off her back for now. To cinch the silence, she gives them her best smile, hand still in Mrs. Flag's. "Don't say anything to Rick about it - we're not _there_ yet... but I'd love both your opinions on the extra room. I keep picturing a nursery, I can't help myself," she gives, hates how easily she lies, and the words hit where she wants them too. Both women smile brilliantly at her and launch into assurances that it's fine, they'd love to come over on Sunday, Mrs. Flag will bring paint chips with her. June gets away, sliding her sunglasses onto her face as she heads for the car.

Opening the door to the 'shoot at me!' car, it occurs to her that it's _incredibly fucked up_ how completely used to this she is. The immediate lock of the doors, the anonymous grey interior, how the car pulls from the curb before she's even buckled into the center seat.

This, shit from a spy movie, is her new normal. She wouldn't even be surprised if she was offered a pen that doubles as a laser or a grappling hook at this point.

All because she _fell in a hole_.

"Dr. Moone," the driver greets, formal and distant. It's ridiculous decorum; his name is Youssef, he likes Raspberry Smirnoff Ice and makes really good scrambled eggs; June knows this because two weeks ago he spent the night on their couch after getting drunk off coolers with Rick and losing spectacularly to her in a game of Texas Hold 'Em.

Three drinks in and he'd started showing them photos of his year-old beagle Jesse, who is apparently the light of his life.

"Agent Abdulsattar," she gives back, just as distant, and he jerks his head in a nod of acknowledgment.

"Your security clearance card is in the back pocket of my chair,"

"I already have a ID for Belle Reve," June returns, forehead creased as she shoves her hand in the pocket in question, pulling out yet _another_ laminated placard with her face on it.

"We're not going to Belle Reve,"


	6. a choking rose

At first glance, the hospital is like any other. Fairly modern and well-windowed, but with the same detachment from reality that every other hospital she's ever seen has. There's a confusing flow of in-and-out roads from various underground parking, and an ambulance sings past them as they pull into the visitor drop off.

This is where June can see the differences - the militants are not armed or obvious, but with two years worth of time spent in buildings that don't exist and being under constant watch under her belt, she can see them. The way the man on the bench isn't reading his newspaper, but watching the door; how the woman to the side has her hand tucked between her back and the wall not for comfort, but for easy grab of her gun. June grits her teeth, exhaling through her nose and resisting the black paranoia shouting _trap_ from somewhere below her ribs.

The car stops, she unbuckles, and forces herself through the hesitation that comes with her hand on the car door. She's still got her sunglasses on, had pulled her hair in a ponytail and the ponytail through the baseball cap she'd had in her bag, and adopts the best air of inconsequential belonging she can manage as she approaches the door.

Her heart's been thrumming in her throat since Youssef turned into the hospital promenade. She hadn't asked what was going on because she knew he couldn't answer, and her panic had climbed and climbed as various situations occurred to her - images of Harley bloody and bruised, unconscious. Open on the operating table. Cold in the morgue.

Waller had _said_ June was here to talk to Harley - but she had lied before, and June might just be here to identify the body.

Regardless of what she's about to walk into, the appearance of the woman in question just within the front doors does nothing to quell her panic - her heartbeat hummingbirds at her pulse points, trying to rip itself free of thin-membrane confines.

"Dr. Moone," Waller repeats the emotionless greeting June had received from Youssef - except this time the distance is entirely _fitting_ , and when the woman turns to keep walking without saying anything else, June follows her automatically.

They get into an elevator, and Waller says nothing. June doesn't either, resists the urge to launch into a barrage of questions because she knows they won't be answered by tapping her fingers on the back of her hand, staring at the elevator lights as they go up, and up, and up. This, at least, dispels one fear; according to every hospital drama June's ever watched, morgues are in basements.

It dispels nothing else; her panic climbs as the lift does. June _knows_ it's high risk to have Harley in a hospital instead of at Belle Reve. It's not as easily protected, it's structurally weak, and it puts innocents in danger. Either they have absolute assurance that _no one_ is coming for Harley, or it's really, _really_ bad.

The moment the elevator doors open they're confronted by more militants; there is nothing subtle about it. They're dressed in the same black armory as the men at Belle Reve, the padding of their bulletproof vests obvious and bulky, and June's swallowing more panic as they check her clearances.

Waller leads her down a hallway, and finally there's a doctor present amongst the artillery, deep in discussion with a clean-cut man in a three-piece black suit. Waller doesn't acknowledge him as they walk past and he doesn't acknowledge her, but the two nurses at the desk eye her nervously, and June sympathizes.

Amanda Waller is a terrifying woman.

Finally, they stop in front of a windowed hospital room, and at her first sight of Harley Quinn in almost four months, June's knees buckle.

The first time she'd seen Harley - properly, outside of the gauzy scope that was her consciousness inside Enchantress - she'd been soaking wet, ponytails scraggly and limp; blue, red and black makeup running down her face. She'd been bleeding, too; partially June's own doing, June had known - but she'd looked lit up; bright, grinning in relief when June, next to naked, collapsed against Rick.

That was when she'd been sure Harley wasn't a bad person. The joy on her face; the way she'd been smiling. Bad people didn't do that. Bad people didn't have that kind of energy.

Now, Harley is light-years from the girl grinning at June in the downpour. She's practically invisible in the hospital bed; the white of her skin and hair almost perfectly match the sterile shade of the sheets. Her tattoos stand out black and grotesque - _rotten_ , scribbled across her cheekbone, the heart just under her eye. Stick-and-poke, June knows, contrasted against the professionally done smattering of red and black Jester diamonds on her forearm.

The latter is partially covered by black leather - a restraint, connected to two chains, one of which is attached to the bed and the other bolted to the floor. The mechanism is repeated from under the blankets at the base of the bed, undoubtedly shackled at her ankles, and yet another restraint is around her neck.

She's chained like an animal.

Amongst all this, it takes until June's third look over her to see the white bandaging, so similar to Harley's skin, just past the leather binds on her forearms. Her breath catches in the back of her throat, blood rushing into her ears, and her nails scrape on the window where her hand has come to rest.

"She tried to kill herself," June surmises, soft, hoarse, trying not to throw up.

Despite the hum of confirmation she gets, she can't reconcile the idea of it - this image, Harley defeated, with what June had had of her for months. She can't put the smile, the laugh, against this. Harley, June thought, had held at her core an insurmountable need to _survive_.

"A helicopter dropped her outside the prison, barely landed. As efficient a disposal as she attempted. She opened both her wrists and ankles and tried for her femoral artery. She didn't manage to open it; we assume she passed out before she could, because she was as good as dead when we got her," it's a listing of facts, and June's engagement ring shrieks against the glass as her fingers curl into a fist. Despite her detachment, Waller's tone has the same hint of _smirk_ as every other word June's ever heard her speak, and the panic pounds itself into blood-soaked anger, rushing in her ears.

Harley tried, _hard_ , to kill herself. And the man Harley had sacrificed every inch of herself for had dropped her like garbage back at Belle Reve - damaged and no longer of use to him.

And Waller was talking about it like it was a _joke_.

" _God_ ," June manages, a broken word cracking in a broken throat.

"She's eleven weeks pregnant," Waller offers suddenly, "We're not sure if she knows."

The scenario forces itself upon June almost immediately. There's no way the Joker has any sort of paternal instinct - he's an absolute psychopath; barely even human. But Harley... June had seen it; she'd seen what Harley wanted, she'd felt every inch and beat of the _ache_ Harley had felt for it. There was no doubt the Joker would have forced her to terminate it - and there was no doubt Harley would have been absolutely devastated by it.

Forced to decide between her baby and the man she was as good as a slave to, Harley chose not to decide.

"Of course she knows," June says, letting her hand fall from the glass and turning to Waller, jaw locking. "It's why she did it," the woman's eyebrows snap together, surprise and confusion all at once, and then it melts into vague regard.

"You understand her," she says, somewhere between realization and a fucked up sort of awe, (not that June thinks Amanda admires anyone but herself), and June wants to smack her.

"She's human. It's not hard to understand," June grits, flexing fingers that want to dig nails into flesh. She's thinking about blood again; this time, the leech of it down a hole torn in Waller's neck, bubbling as the bitch chokes. June pushes it away, brings her hand up to rub at the back of her own neck, drags her nails across her skin harder than necessary.

"Nonetheless - " Waller breaks eye contact, looking back into the room. "Somehow, the fetus survived the extreme blood loss and shock. We're not even sure how she managed to conceive with the damage her body's already been through - but we need to find out where she's been, what she's been doing, what the _Joker's_ been doing. And then we need to decide what to do with her," she takes a breath, and this time she _truly_ smirks, the quirk of her lip infuriating, and June hears smashing glass and _blood, blood, blood_. "That's where you come in,"

"Is she sedated?" June asks around the black, viscous _hate_ boiling breathless in her chest, and Waller shakes her head.

"Harley Quinn was subjected to an extremely powerful anti-toxin, created by Poison Ivy, shortly after her orchestration of the Joker's escape from Arkham Asylum. Subsequently, her immune system has a paramount resistance to all poisons and medications," she rattles off, and June looks at her in bewilderment. She's _seen_ Harley been sedated. She'd spent nearly a week drugged out after her last incident with the bars. June had spent almost every day there, sitting outside the cage, watching her - she'd been knocked out to let her body heal from the burns and damage to her nerve endings. It had been a serious shock, more powerful than previous ones, and in an effort to prevent a repeat, June had stopped visiting when she'd been brought back to consciousness.

"She's been sedated before,"

"At four times the normal human dosage," Waller returns, smirking again, and June takes a sharp, short breath. "We're unsure as of yet if the ability has been passed to the fetus - and nonetheless, we wouldn't be able to administer a useful amount without putting it under serious stress. Hence the chains," she explains, and June opens her mouth to ask _why_ they care at all about the baby, and then presses her lips into a thin line, grinding her teeth.

She knows why. Leverage.

"All right," the woman gives a short jerk of a nod, gesturing to the door, and the guard at the other side of it sets in on opening it - it's a metal door, in a metal frame. Both undoubtedly installed as soon as they brought Harley here, and there's three sets of manual locking along with an electronic system she needs her keycard for. Finally, there's the click of the door opening, and June is allowed in. There are guards in two corners of the room, both holding absurdly big guns, and they acknowledge her with nothing but a flick of the eyes as June approaches the bed.

It's... _wrong_ , to see Harley without bars obstructing the view, and June stands motionless for a half moment, paralyzed by the oddness of it. Without the window in the way, she can see the monitors and machines Harley's hooked up to. There's an intravenous and an arterial line - grotesque in that June can _see_ the dark of the needle beneath the paper-translucence of Harley's skin, and the bruising of both is already magnificent. She has a nasal cannula, and a clothes-pin like object June recognizes from her own hospital stays on her forefinger. Colour-coded wires disappear down the front of her hospital gown, both leading out to connect to two separate monitors. They both portray what looks, to June, like a heartbeat.

It takes her a moment to realize the one moving faster and more minutely is _fetal_.

June brings her hand up, brushing the base of her palm under her eye to wipe away the saltwater that's managed to escape. She's never seen Harley anything but caged and contained, but _this_... so completely powerless, so devastatingly _small_ , is completely different. It's shocking, and June can hear the raggedness in her own breathing as the air catches against her throat.

There's a chair settled next to the bed; June can see that it's been bolted down, and she wonders distantly if it was set there for her or if someone else has been in it. She's nearly positive of the former - she doesn't think there's anyone else who'd deign to sit vigil for Harley, and sinks slow, purse dropping to the floor and fingers curling over the bar at the side of the bed.

_Harley, let go of the bars._

_Fuck you_.

June inhales, slow and deep, and finally, _finally_ , reaches to brush her knuckles against the girl's arm.

Harley jerks. It's sudden and sharp and her eyes flick open in wide panic, heart monitor jumping to an immediate marathon and chest heaving.

"Harley, hey -" June breaks off, stands back up, holding her hands out like defense, like she has to prove she doesn't have a weapon.

It's Harley.

Maybe she does.

"It's me, it's just June,"

Bright blue eyes are still sparking fear, and June hears the echo of her assurance in too-high singsong. _Just June, Just June_. She runs her hand down the girl's arm, over the binds and the bandages, to press the tips of her fingers into Harley's palm.

June couldn't feel Harley properly through the binding of her straitjacket the last time they touched. This is the first time they've made contact skin to skin, and Harley's _freezing_. June can't tell if it's from blood loss, or a symptom of the same acid that leached the girl's skin of colour, but she fits the warmth of her fingers between Harley's and squeezes.

Harley just stares at her, silent, chest still heaving - but June flicks her eyes between the girl's face and slowing heart monitor, and finally Harley's fingers lock around hers.

"Bastards," she hisses, head lifting just barely the pillow to look at the guards at the end of the room. "Little boys with big guns, couldn't just let me _die_ ," she spits, a growl, and June sighs, settles back down in the chair, her hand still locked in Harley's.

She's at a loss. She should've thought of something to say before she entered the room - everything she'd come up with in the car was negated the moment they pulled up to the hospital. She's got nothing; she's just watching the paper-white of Harley's jaw grind, the heart monitor in her peripheries, and she's got _nothing_ , nothing until Harley snaps at her.

"Quit fuckin' staring,"

"I didn't think I'd see you again," comes out quick, before June can catch it, the admission hollow, and Harley's brow is knit in anger, but she doesn't let go of June's hand.

 _"You're_ the one who stopped visiting," she shoots, an accusation, and June takes a slow breath, nods.

"I know," she glances to the guards, the chains at Harley's ankles, knows the emptiness of her next statement; "I thought I was making things worse,"

Predictably, Harley snorts.

"Harley..." she trails off, her free hand twitches in her lap. She wants to brush the hair that's fallen from a crudely drawn up knot on top of Harley's head from her face - she wants to hold Harley's hand tight in both of hers, assure them both of their existences, of the reality of the situation. She does neither. "Who's the father?"

The question occurs to her in sudden uncertainty - she'd spent weeks lamenting the meaning behind Harley's taunting of the guards; _hard and fast entertainment_ , tried to figure out just how genuinely she meant it, but had known there was no point in broaching the subject again when they were being monitored by the men in question. Harley arches a bleach-white eyebrow at her, lips pursed.

"You ain't stupid, don't ask stupid stuff,"

"The way you talked about the guards..."

"They didn't rape me," she interrupts, a cackle breaking over the words, and flicks accusing bright-blue at the black shadows. "Wouldn't dare. Pussies," she snaps back to June, flexes her fingers, and June loosens her own in anticipation of being pushed away. Instead, Harley's hand locks back just as tight. "Ain't been anyone but J in a long time," she says, and June allows herself a heartbeat of relief before she realizes that that's probably just as bad, if not worse - not only can she not reconcile the imagine of the psychopath with a context of _real_ consent, but there can't be anything _good_ that comes with being the offspring of an insane mass-murderer.

A situation doubled, really, by the mother - however hard a time June has processing _that_ diagnosis against the half-dead girl shackled to the bed in front of her.

"Can't believe it survived," Harley muses, hand still in June's as she turns her head just a little bit more - a movement that doesn't look particularly easy, or comfortable, in the confines of the choker, but June supposes Harley's probably used to functioning within restraints - to look at the twin monitors. "This one's stubborn," she adds, and June's too busy watching the slight way the girl's thumb brushes over the back of June's hand to catch the words for a moment.

 _This one_.

"You were pregnant before," She states - again, her lack of sensitivity exacerbated by the girl's presence. June's never been much of one for veiled conversation, anyway, and it's even less functional when it comes to Harley. Harley's blunt, so she's blunt back.

There's another snort; condescending and dismissive. Harley doesn't look away from the green LED mountains drifting across the monitor screen.

"You were there," she says, and June stares at her, the scribbled ink on her cheek, and then understands.

The vision; the dream - whatever June wants to call it; there'd been two babies, identical blondes, both with bright blue eyes, both with dimpled apple cheeks. Twins.

"Oh, _Harley_ ," the hand around hers squeezes, hard, nails digging into June's skin, and Harley's looking at her with a locked jaw and wet eyes.

"Don't," Harley squeezes harder, freakishly strong despite the state she's in. June tries not to wince, bites back a noise of pain, doesn't want to alert the guards or get herself removed from the room. This is important.

"How?" She asks, voice short and sharp and Harley squeezes tighter for a heartbeat, then releases, pulling away completely - the best she can with the restraint holding her in place. June takes the hint, brings her fingers away and into her lap to flex them, rubbing at the already forming bruise-ache between her knuckles.

"I lost 'em," she says, a rueful downturn to her lips. She's not looking at June - June's glad, because she doesn't think she's doing much at hiding the abject horror she's feeling. "He helped."

June swallows, keeps her hands to herself instead of reaching out to Harley again. Eyes suddenly flick to her, round and searching.

"Did he say anything? Leave anything?" She asks, and June doesn't actually _know_ , but Waller had made out like there was very little chance of it.

"I don't have that kind of clearance," she settles for, and Harley rolls her eyes, looking away, then starts in with a tone of questioning realization.

"What kind of clearance _do_ you have? How'd ya get in here?" June rolls her tongue against the roof of her mouth, gives a single-shouldered shrug.

"I guess they knew I'd want to see you," she says, and there's a flickering in the way Harley looks at her, a twitching in her forehead, before she's smirking, the paler than usual white of her lips odd in the expression.

"You still worried about me, cutie?" She asks, and June can't help the _duh_ that draws itself into her features, the way her eyebrows hit her hairline, eyes wide, lips downturned, giving Harley a purposeful and pointed once-over. The smirk twitches. Harley says nothing.

June stays silent, too, looking back up at the twin heart monitors. She counts the peaks, _one, two, three, four, five_ \- takes a breath - _one, two, three_ -

"Are they gonna make me get rid of it?" Harley asks; it's a dead question, there's no feeling in it, and June presses her lips into a line. _One, two, three, four, five_.

"I don't think so," she admits, bites on her back teeth and swallows. _One, two_ \- "The only reason you're not unconscious is because they were worried that giving you the dosage required would put the fetus in distress," _Leverage_. Harley closes her eyes, relaxes against the pillow, like she's mulling it over.

" _Fetus_ ," she echoes, eyes still closed; "Dosage. Distress. You ain't ever sounded more like a doctor," June grimaces. It's hard not to apply the clinical terms to this - there's nothing warm or fuzzy about the situation; nothing 'joyous', it's all tainted by the sterility of the room, the bandaging on Harley's wrists, the clinking of the chains as she shifts; so many ghosts haunting them at once. "What're they gonna do with _me_?" She asks, and June shakes her head even though Harley isn't looking. The question is quiet, weak; so far from the Harley June knew _even_ in a prison cell, treated barely above a caged animal. It's submission; it's defeated - there's no drive to fight inside it, it's vague curiosity for the sake of curiosity, and hearing it _hurts_.

There was something enamouring about the impenetrable drive Harley'd had, even in Belle Reve - it was a _sick_ sort of optimism, the apparent belief that she was invincible - but it was a core pillar of _Harley_ , and it's like she's lost it along with the blood. June feels the hollow ache like she's the one who lost something, cavernous and echoing in her chest.

"I don't know," she admits, brings her hand up to press her palm into the centre of her ribcage, pushing at the empty spot. She knows what Waller wants her to say, and drives her palm hard against her ribs, coughing once. "It might... there's been no trace of you; or him. No sightings, nothing. If you can tell them... where you were, where he's going... they might be more lenient,"

The words don't sound particularly convincing, even to her, and Harley's eyes are open again, looking at her with skepticism and something like disgust.

"I ain't no snitch," she snaps, teeth clicking on the consonant, and June can't help her sigh.

"It could help -"

"I'm not gonna snitch on J!"

"He dropped you in the fucking dirt!" June's voice breaks an octave and she stands up, the bubblings of rage she's been suppressing and avoiding and biting back startling up in her throat, sharp and hot between her shoulder blades. "He did nothing! He left you like _garbage_ , bleeding out. You were as good as dead when they found you! Why are you protecting him?!" She turns away, throwing her hands up in exasperation and anger. "He doesn't care about you. He's never cared about you. He left you to drown the first time you got picked up, left you to bleed out the second - what are you, waiting for a third? What if the third actually gets you _killed_?" She feels breathless, the edges of her vision black and fuzzy, and brings a hand up to hold it over her forehead, her temples pounding.

"You don't know anything," Harley speaks over the pound, and black cuts across the center of June's vision.

"He electrocuted you, Harley! I've read the _fucking_ files!" The guards are tense - she can feel it, the stiffness in their postures, the lift of their guns, and turns away from them and back to Harley. There's a flickering in the black, and she sees shock flit across Harley's face.

"Your eyes," she mutters, and June can't process it over the rage - but Harley's still staring at her; the clarity of the image is shuddering, spasming, but June can still see the fear and takes a short breath, trying to focus.

June's jaw clicks, and it hits her like a hand around her throat. The fear is directed at _her_ , and the anger rushes out of her all at once, drips from her fingers, leaving her cold. Her knees buckle again, just enough for her to have to stumble forward and catch herself on the edge of the bed. Her head swims, the soaked-cotton feeling of a hangover. June inhales, clutching the bar of the bed, and tries to blink her eyesight back, breathing hard.

Finally, she stabilizes, and Harley's still watching her with wide eyes. She looks around the room, finds the guards both holding their guns up; not quite trained on her, but about to be, and looks down at her own hands with panic high in her throat.

Her palms are black.

"June?" Harley prompts, and June takes a stuttering breath.

"I'm sorry," June apologizes, hoarse and soft. "I'll leave," Harley flinches, wrist pulling up against the restraint.

"Don't," she says, just as quiet as June, who looks up at her in confusion.

It's not the time to notice it - it's so, incredibly, _not the time_ , but June's looking at her, and all she can see is how _pretty_ Harley is. Even lying next-to-dead and handcuffed to a hospital bed, she's stunning. It's the kind of pretty someone can only be born with - it's in the sharp edging of her jaw, the lift of her cheekbones, the angle of her brow, cut of her nose. She's  _beautiful_.

"I don't wanna be alone with these pricks," Harley says, and June licks her lips. "I don't think you oughta be alone either."

June considers; Harley's eyes are still impossibly bright, despite the trauma her body's been through, and as she always has, June sees more honesty than mania in them. Finally, she nods.

"Okay,"

Harley's hand flexes again, and June feels automatic in the way she reaches out, fits her fingers within the other girl's.

Their palms brush together as the girl adjusts her grip, and June's left staring at the blackened staining her skin leaves on Harley's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUN


	7. blinding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> half unbeta-d. i like to mix things up and also, do everything last minute.

At some point, June must fall asleep, because she's woken by warm pressure on her shoulder and one of the nurses from the desk smiling at her. It's a soft sort of thing; sympathetic without being pitying - a perfection, June assumes, from years of bedside manner, and she tries without success to blink the grogginess from her eyes.

She's _exhausted_. She's more tired than she's been in weeks - part of her wonders, distantly, if she's been drugged, but tries to bury that with rationality. She's been high strung for months; Harley's reappearance has released that, and the _stress_ that's been keeping her awake has dissipated, leaving tired in its wake.

"You shouldn't sleep in this chair, love," the woman says, accent distinctly Irish, and June shakes her head fervently.

"I'm not going home -"

"No, no," the nurse waves a hand, dismissing her protests. "I know your type, I know you're not," June grasps at the words for a second, wondering what _type_ she is, but the nurse plows on; "I've got a cot set up for you on the other side of the bed. Come now," she pulls back, holding a hand out to help June up, and June realizes her own hand is still tangled up in Harley's.

She's asleep, too. Her head has dropped to the side the best it can within the choker, and her jaw is slacked. Her lips are parted; just enough so her front teeth are barely visible, and it's incredibly _cute_.

June shakes her head at herself, rolling her eyes at the adjective even as she admires the soft blue-purple of Harley's eyelids, and lets the nurse help her up.

The moment she's away from the chair the back of her shirt sticks to her, soaked with sweat, and June grimaces. She can't remember any sort of dream, but that doesn't mean she didn't have one, and she winces at the idea of the guards having watched her whimper and twist out her nightmare in the confines of the chair.

It wouldn't be the first time total strangers have had her at their complete mercy, however, and she tries to push away her embarrassment, bringing a hand to her back to tug her shirt from her skin as she follows the nurse around the bed. Sure enough, there's a little cot set up, the top about a foot from the ground and made up in hospital sheets that match Harley's.

"Thank you," June gives, hears the hoarseness in her voice from lack of use and wonders with that, and the drowsiness she can't shake from her bones, how long she's been asleep.

"Not a problem, dear," the woman assures, and moves to pull the chart up from where it's hanging at the end of Harley's bed.

"Do you know who we are?" June asks suddenly - it's probably a dangerous question with the stone-faced Waller-bots in the corners, but she's curious. She knows her face was never televised; shockingly, no photos of Enchantress ever showed up on the internet. Probably, June's surmised, because the _thing_ moved too fast. But Harley's been all over every station that could get a hold of her mugshots for years, she's as recognizable as the Joker, and it's strange to her that the woman would be as calm as she is while treating someone as infamous as _the_ Harley Quinn.

Then again; Harley doesn't look quite like Harley without the makeup, and the dye has been washed from her hair, leaving her an endless expanse of white and tattoos.

The nurse smiles at the chart, a half-mouth of a thing, endearing and comforting all at once.

"I only _know_ what the chart says. Twenty seven year old female, attempted suicide. Brought in with extreme blood loss and wounds in both wrists, both ankles, and a stab wound on the inside of her thigh, just above the femoral artery. Allergic to antibiotics and anesthesia. Eleven weeks pregnant," she lists off, drops the chart back onto its hook. "I know she's very hurt, and I know you're very worried, and I think that's all that matters," she goes on, looking at June now, looking at June like she _knows_ \- though June isn't exactly sure _what_ she knows, but it's knowledgeable all the same, and June shifts awkwardly under her assessment. "Get some sleep; Angie and I have a stash of coffee and some granola bars for the morning," she gives, and then she's gone, the ridiculous amount of locks on the door clicking into place behind her.

June sighs, drops to sit on the edge of the cot and look at Harley, the mattress eye-level. Her lips move, just a little, and her eyelids flutter, and June glances at the heart monitor - trying to discern if the dream is a _bad_ one, if she should wake her up. It's not pounding at any sort of erratic pace, and June decides against retaking the girl's hand, thinking of the way she'd startled her when she first came in.

She ignores the guards and strips off her shirt, damp with sweat, to drop back on the bed in the sports bra she'd been wearing underneath. It takes her minutes to pass back out, as previously used to the presence of an armed guard watching her as she is, and when she wakes up again it's to the doctor checking Harley's vitals and hot coffee in a styrofoam cup sitting next to the leg of her cot.

She stays through the doctor's check and update - the baby is healthy; healthier than Harley is, right now - and to finish her coffee and then Waller, without room for argument, informs her there's a car waiting for her downstairs.

June takes Harley's hand again, still disturbingly cold, before she leaves. There was a stack of books, ready for her next visit, sitting on her bookshelf before June had decided she shouldn't go back - it hasn't been moved, hasn't been touched, and June promises she'll bring them next time she comes in - insists, glaring at Waller, that there will _be a next time_ , and then is lead out by one of the robots.

They haven't even pulled out of the hospital parking lot when her phone goes off, little devil emoji grinning red and evil up at her from her phone, and June drops back against the seat as she answers it.

"You were completely useless," is how the woman opens the call, and June bristles, gritting her teeth indignantly.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You got nothing from her,"

"I had nothing for her! I didn't have any answers to any of her questions, did you really expect her to give up the Joker for a _maybe_?"

"Basic negotiation; be more promising. Make that maybe sound more like a yes. _Don't_ tell the subject you don't have any answers," June groans, a sharp, pissed off noise against the back of her throat.

"I'm not a negotiator," she snaps, "You asked me to talk to her because of our relationship, not my conversation skills,"

The words, angry and tapered, are met with silence.

And then: "What is that relationship, exactly?"

June flushes. The tone of the words - accusing, curious - curl guilt, hot and heavy, into her stomach. She doesn't even know _why_ \- but the way the woman says it makes June feel dirty, like she's doing something wrong.

"I'm the only person in her life not trying to use her while threatening to kill her," June offers, scathing as she can manage with the undefined embarrassment overwhelming her. "That relationship,"

"Ah," Waller makes a noise of recognition on the other end of the line, tinny but somehow just as disarmingly intimidating through the phone. She's a puppet master. This woman, June reminds herself, is just as responsible for the lives June's destroyed as June is herself. "Because you seem very attached. Passionately concerned for her well-being. Passionately angry about her relationship with the Joker... one could even call it jealous," June inhales, a whistle of a noise through her teeth. The shot lands where it's meant to, and she bites hard on her back teeth. "The hand holding was a nice touch. I expect you back tonight, and I expect _results_."

With that, the line goes dead, and June sits in sullen silence, still holding the phone to her ear.

 _One could even call it jealous_.

She's _not_ jealous. She's angry. She's angry that Harley's still so hopelessly devoted to the psycho that's been using and abusing her for _years_. She's angry, because everyone's assigning her the role of villain without taking into account the equally accurate role of _victim_. She's not jealous. She's pissed off. She's _really_ pissed off, apparently - the rush of fear on Harley's face had made that clear, that June didn't have enough control over just _how_ angry she was.

Or, June thinks, dropping the phone into her purse and looking at herself in the rearview mirror; she doesn't have enough control over something else.

By the time the car has pulled up in front of her house - one of many Government-Employee occupied in the faux-idyllic cookie cutter neighborhood - the sky has opened up into the fall storm it's been threatening for days, and even with the way she runs up the front walk, June is soaked by the time she gets inside.

Slamming the door shut and dropping back against it, the silence inside the house is suddenly deafening.

Rick is away a lot. Nearly as much as he's home, he's gone - some mission or another (all confidential, all _need to know_ ), sometimes in DC, sometimes in Washington - so it's quiet. It's always quiet. Even when he's here, he spends his days at Belle Reve, and gets home later from the prison than she does from the University.

They need a dog, or something; Rick would like a dog, except it would be locked in the house eight hours a day and if June knows Rick he'll want a _big_ dog, and that would be just cruel.

June could take the dog to work with her. It would make her a hit with the students. _'Have you guys had Professor Moone? She's got a pitbull in her lecture hall,'_ \- she doubts, somehow, she'd have much luck getting that past administration.

A cat, maybe. They could get a cat. Cats are independent, but snuggly and fluffy enough to provide companionship. They could get two cats, to keep each other company during the day.

June sighs, presses the heels of her palms into her eyes and gives a low, self-directed laugh. One of the people she cares about most in the world - and she knows this of herself, that somehow, Harley has made her way into June's top ten, simply by way of being _Harley_ \- has just turned up looking like a torture victim, half-dead and apparently without much interest in reclaiming her survival instinct. And June is thinking about pets.

Talk about coping mechanisms.

June pushes off the door, strips as she heads for the laundry machines at the back of the house, shoving her wet clothes in the wash so she's left standing naked at the back door as she fills it with soap. A moment, and she decides to collect the hamper from the bedroom - stops on the way there to redirect to the kitchen, fill and start the coffee machine.

She can't think past the next step; literally, past the next movement of her feet. It's a foggy, cottony feeling - it's exhaustion, and maybe, she thinks, something like shock. She's halfway through a bowl of cornflakes when she realizes she still hasn't started the washing machine and is standing, naked, in the middle of the kitchen.

With the blinds open.

"Sleep," she mutters, drops the still full bowl in the kitchen sink and turns off the half brewed coffee, intent on the bedroom.

She flops, ungraceful and unceremoniously, on top of the covers, so the arm of her glasses press into her temple and her vision skews. She manages to get them off, tossed away from her on the bed, before she's asleep again.

 

June feels _disgusting_ when she wakes up. It could be hours later, it could be three days - either way, she's freezing, and her mouth feels fuzzy with stale coffee and milk. She coughs, groans, presses her face into the bedspread and talks her limbs into pushing off the bed, stumbling a little on her path for the shower.

It's like a hangover, except she didn't get to drink; she just got to get sucker punched by how fucking _awful_ the world can be. It's her own fault; she should have had her guard up, hands in front of her jaw, blocked with something besides her face - she _knows_ how awful the world is. It shouldn't have stopped her dead. It shouldn't have made her feel like someone was dragging a rusty knife through her chest; she's stronger than that. She _should_ be stronger than that.

_There ain't no going back from what we've done, what you've done._

She's part of the awful, after all.

"Harley's alive," she mumbles to herself, fingers curving to catch the lip of the bathtub spout and tug down, redirecting the water to the showerhead. It's true, technically; her heart is beating, her lungs are working - _she's alive, she's alive, she's alive_.

But she doesn't want to be.

June steps into the spray facefirst, tilts her head up for it. She runs her hands into her hair to get it wet and keeps her eyes closed, standing there, waiting for the water to beat the images out of her brain.

Harley, lying in the hospital bed. Harley, lying on the floor of her cage, twitching with electrocution after shocks.

Harley, lying on an operating table, conductors held to her temples and a leather belt shoved in her mouth. Except it's not Harley, it's Harleen; it's the photos June's seen of the _before_ , of black, square, thick-rimmed glasses. Of a girl in a blouse and blonde curls - _real_ blonde, natural blonde; of blue eyes without an unnatural brightness, of a grin without an edge to it. Laughing, _real_ laughing.

Of mugshots; the slow breakdown over the times they were taken - first only the bleached skin and wicked smirk, half laugh, revealing bloodstained teeth. Then, with the addition of tattoos, hair doused in shitty dye; eyes somehow less and more bright at the same time.

Pictures of her kissing the Joker; the metal clack of his mouth on the razor edge of hers. Of her throat in his hand, of his hand in _her_ , of the hand over the razor-mouth and hips forcing, jerking.

 _Not real, not real, not real_ \- except it is, June knows. Somehow, somewhere; it's real, and she startles herself with a soft sob under the water, echoing out against the tiled walls.

She can't remember the last time she cried, and this _wrenches_ itself from her body - one, then another, wreaking havoc as it rips out of her ribcage.

The feeling is fuzzy - the edges of it are wrong, torn; no smooth break, and she gasps as she steps out of the spray, finds her balance with a hand on the wall of the shower. It feels _dangerous_ ; panic comes up at the invitation of the ripped edges, how easy it would be to let the shock and the hurt and the fear roll over into something else, something safe.

She's supposed to be free of this.

This is supposed to be over.

She gasps again - a broken, cracking inhale, hand curling around her throat like she's choking, and holds her breath. Screws her eyes shut, presses her lips together hard - forces it _away_. She won't; she can't. People need her - _Harley_ needs her; no one else is going to stand up for her - and then it's gone; the creeping, thick black disappears as quick as it came, leaving her standing in the too-white shower washing the tears from her face.

She falls back into the mechanics, soap, shampoo, conditioner, and is rinsing off when she hears someone come into the bedroom, hears the dull thud of a heavy bag dropped on the floor.

"I'm home, baby," is low, gruff, and June tugs the shower curtain back to find him standing shoulder-slumped in the doorway.

"You look like you just came out of a warzone," she gives; likes the rueful smirk it turns up in the corner of his mouth, finds comfort in the roll of his eyes. He's in grey sweatpants and a goverment-issued tshirt she knows has 'Marine' stamped across the back. It's dotted wet, and his hair is dripping; it must still be raining.

She doesn't even know what time it is.

"You look like you slept in a hospital chair," he throws back, and she scoffs, tugs the shower curtain back a little more.

_Do you love your soldier boy?_

"Water's still hot," she offers, and his grin gets a little more sincere, turns up a little more genuinely, before he starts pulling off his shirt.

Richard Rogers Flag is an _incredibly_ good looking man.

This is a fact - this has always been a fact; his life, his job, revolves around the capability of his physicality. He's _huge_ , broad shoulders and big arms, and the tallest of four brothers. He looks good shirtless. He has always looked good shirtless; looks good with the scruff she knows he keeps because she likes it, sweats slung low on the V of his hips.

He looks good. He looks better than good. But here, now, she doesn't want him.

She moves as he steps into the shower anyway, runs her hands along his chest up to his neck, his jaw.

"Waller called me," he says, and she grinds hard on her back teeth.

"I don't want to talk about it,"

"June -"

"I _don't_ want to talk about it," she insists, grits the words, presses up on her toes to kiss him - hard, teeth still locked together, angry, burying whatever comfort he wants to give.

He _shouldn't_ be comforting her about Harley; shouldn't comfort her over how upset she is about the girl, over how much she cares.

_What is that relationship, exactly?_

"Baby, we should -"

"I _missed_ you," she pushes out, tries to sound as sincere as possible, and it's not quite a lie. It's not really a lie at all. She did miss him. She just didn't _want_ him. But she can't have what she wants; she shouldn't want what she wants, and he's here, and he's hers, and he loves her. "Rick," she mutters, presses her lips along his jaw and shoves away every sick feeling coming with the lies her mouth is kissing into his skin. "I missed you," she gives again, insistent, drags wet fingertips over his abdomen and down, and finally he groans, gives him, has her by the hips and pulled flush against him.

It's _good_. He's good. He kisses her like he means it; he flats a hand on the small of her back and another at the base of her jaw and she's dwarfed by him, usually loves it. His fingers are good, they know her - he kisses her cheek, her temple, the shell of her ear and runs his fingers along her body, up her chest, between her ribs.

She's not totally here, not totally _with him_ , but her body responds away - she makes a rush of a sound in the catch of breath at the back of her throat when his teeth drag in the joint of his shoulder. She drops her head back and lets him hold her up, running her hand through his hair to the back of his skull. Keeps him in place, keeps his mouth on her clavicle, her breast bone - steps back when he pushes, just enough to get his point across, so her back is on the tile and he's on his knees, lips on her stomach, her hips, water beating his back.

They're good at shower sex. It's one of their favourites; one of their fortes - it's something to do with their size difference and the fact that he can lift her like she's nothing, more to do with the fact that she can't get off in missionary, needs different angles.

Rick has always been nothing if not accommodating.

It's easy to hitch her leg over his shoulder and she doesn't even mind how fast they go from zero to sixty - she doesn't want all the foreplay; she just wanted the distraction. Fuck the buildup, just fuck _her_. 

Neither of them really considers the swipe of his tongue across her foreplay, though. She tenses up with it, gets both hands in his hair; short, but thick, _good_ to hold onto. Again, keeps him there; keeps his tongue rolling the short circles around her clit, dragging, keeps the swipe up, across, light enough to be there but not be _enough_ , the hand gripping her thigh and the fingers around her hip, holding her back against the shower.

She falters, her ankle digging into his back; her knee buckles a little and thank God for the way he's holding her up, for the automatic grab that keeps her against the wall. He looks up at her - a man who doesn't need praise when he can see, feel, taste, _touch_ the proof; the smug grin and low-lidded eyes. Despite herself, she grins back at him, gives a slight shake of her head, a mute _shutup_ to his thoughts, and he's kissing the inside of her thigh before he drops her leg, stands back up.

She loves this about him; loves that going down on her turns him on, has him hard. Loves the quick way he's breathing - the in, out, in, out rise and fall of his chest - and is kissing him again, kissing the taste of her from him, digging her fingertips into the back of his neck.

"I wanna fuck you," he mutters, sharp and primal, and her air catches high-pitched again as she nods.

Obviously. _Obviously_ he's going to fuck her - that's the whole point, that's where they were going - but he almost always says it, almost always tells her how he feels about her, how he wants her.

He's in love with her. He's so, _so_ in love with her.

_you said yes 'cause you knew you didn't deserve it and knew ya wouldn't get another chance_

She grimaces, buries it against his mouth, in her hands pulling at his hips, pulling him so the length of him is trapped between their bodies. She feels him grin - his tongue traces her lip, slow, the move of a man who has exactly what he wants and _knows_ it - and grabs her by the thighs, lifts her. 

She readjusts, flexes her legs around his hips to get up a little higher, and drops her head back against the tile. His forehead rests in the joint of her shoulder, looking down, watching himself press inside her.

She hisses; tongue to the backs of her teeth, exhales _hard_ , and he growls into her body, one hand slamming against the wall of the shower for balance.

It's slow. It's _achingly_ slow, and June's gone - she's distracting him as much as she's distracting herself; hiding from her feelings in this one, in the inching way he pulls out, the harshness when he slams back in.

He's never been a man who keeps it to himself; she's been with men so quiet she couldn't tell if they were even awake while they fucked, but Rick has always been _loud_. They're both loud; her breathing is harsh and fast and pulls up into a whimper every time he drags his fingers over her clit, intermittent and unpredictable, and he _moans_. It reverberates in his chest, against her body, and his pace starts picking up and breaking stride. His hips stutter and his fingers are a little clumsier, but more insistent, on her clit; repetitive, continuous, she's got her arms around his shoulders to hold onto him, and that overwhelming-too-much-almost hovers _just_ past her grip.

This is where she wants to be, always. In the place where it feels so good it almost hurts; with shower water-turned-cold spraying them, behind locked doors - where no one can reach them.

The stuttering picks up; erratic and jumpy, and she runs her hands slow against his collarbone, inclines her head to press her lips to his ear.

"Slow down," she gives, quiet, feels the tension sharpen into his spine when he stops, then starts, moves like his body is a bowstring, fingers still moving their circles.

It's more than she expects; it's _harder_ than she expects, louder - she arches off the wall, digs nails into his shoulder, the back of his neck, and the final snap of his hips is almost cruel. She's barely aware of it; she's barely aware of _him_ , and then he's pressing light, soft kisses into her neck and she's wishing they were razors.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know. i know. i missed an update. i'm sorry y'all. but the plan is to have this one up tonight and another up tomorrow! (You should all know, the only reason I got around the writer's block is my girlfriend, who's brilliant, and deserves wicked credit for the first half of this chapter. Everyone thank Becs in the comments, right now!!)
> 
> As always, feedback welcome and appreciated. Xx

The straitjacket is too tight; June doesn't know that there's ever been one that wasn't, but her elbows compress her ribcage so tight that her exhales come sharp and harsh through her nose, the cloth strapped into her mouth kicking up her gag reflex every time she tries to inhale.

It's hot. Suffocating. She's dripping with sweat, and it collects itchy and wet between her skin and the jumpsuit fabric despite the cold numbness in her hands.

There's a whimpering noise; it takes June a moment to realize that the injured, desperate noise is coming from  _her_ , and she cries out a little louder, trying to wiggle her arms from where they're compressing her chest. It's useless, it's always useless, and it's now, as blurry vision drifts when she tries to move her fingers, that the girl comes into her vision.

June squints, trying to see through the obscure of tears.

It's Harley. It's always Harley.

The girl is, finally, free; there's no shackling, no collar, where she's sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete floor outside June's cell. She doesn't acknowledge June; she doesn't acknowledge anything - she's silent.

It's like watching a ghost, the pale of her skin, her hair, practically translucent in the harsh fluorescence. 

June can't properly see what she's doing; it looks methodical, whatever it is, and June tries to focus on deciphering Harley's movements over the claustrophobia of her cage.

In seconds, she regrets it.

The blood practically _glows_ where it bursts over Harley's forearm, a jewel scarlet staining white, and it drips to the floor, echoing hollowly against empty concrete walls. It's wrong. Blood isn't  _heavy_ , it shouldn't reverberate, but June feels every drop like a hammer to the skull, and cries out in the gag when she sees a flash of silver.

 _Stop, stop, stop._ June screams the best she can, throws herself against the restraints. Harley doesn't look up; she doesn't respond at all. It's like she doesn't even know June is _there_ , and June grinds down on the gag, trying to bite through it. 

It's useless. Even if it wasn't useless, she's sobbing, and there's no strength to the way she's moving.

 _Enchantress_.

The whisper comes from somewhere at the base of her skull; it's cold, creeping down along her spine, and June sobs harder, desperately trying to tear away from the feeling, trying to get to Harley.

The girl still doesn't hear her, doesn't see her. Blood blooms again, sick and bright on her other arm. June can see the red running rivulets down the fingers she uses to make the slit, her skin slipping apart like nothing under the slick of the blade.

Harley knows what she's doing, of course. She's killed before. 

 _So have you_.

The insistence comes with the same creep of cold, this time along her jaw, and June wrenches harder, feels a pop and a burst of pain in her shoulder, where she's wrenching on her restrictions.

She yells again. This time, Harley looks up - not at her, but around, like maybe, _almost_ , she can hear June. June tries again; _screams_ into the gag. 

There's no response. Harley's covered in blood, now; it's pooled on the ground around her, both dark and bright under the lights. Reflective, June watches the shadow of Harley pull her leg up.

It's the first noise Harley makes. It's dull; a groan, sick and heavy, and June stops trying to get free. There's no point. There's never any point. She just sobs, lying limp in the chair, and watches, waits, until Harley falls to the side.

Finally, the girl's eyes meet hers; the bright blue of them snaps something like recognition for a half-second, and then the bright is gone. Her gaze slips, her jaw slacks, and she's dead.

 

 

Unlike her other nightmares, June wakes in silence.

It's the same dream. It's always the same dream. She thinks it's strange that she doesn't cry out with how much she screams _inside_ it - but she's glad, glad that she doesn't wake Rick, that she doesn't open her eyes to him above her, to his reassurances, his hands smoothing her hair.

She thinks it would make her sick, if she did.

As it is, she slips silently from the bed, leaving him sprawled on his side, one hand tossed up in a loose fist on the pillow beside his head and the other arm thrown across his chest. She doesn't have to look to know; it's how he always sleeps, unless he's having a nightmare. Comfortable, lounging; the rest of a man with nothing to fear.

Harley sleeps on her side. June knows; she'd seen her curled up on the floor of her cage more than once before she started visiting her. Wrapped tight in the blanket given to her, she makes herself as small as possible and holds the pillow against herself, face buried in it like she's trying to hide.

It's still dark outside; early October, it's too late for there to be any point in June trying to go back to sleep - not that she thinks she could - but still too early for the sun to rise. On automatic, June moves through the house, puts the coffee on for herself and drops a tea bag in a travel mug for Rick, flicking on the electric kettle. It'll boil, and stay hot until he last-minute remembers to pour it in the mug on his way out the door an hour and a half from now.

She bites into the apple; the skin bursts on the cut of her teeth, and she wipes the back of her hand against her mouth to catch the juice. 

 

The dream never changes. As soon as June starts trying to get free, Harley shows up; and Harley never sees her, never knows that she's there.

She always dies.

The first time, it had taken June nearly five minutes to convince herself that it wasn't real. She'd slipped out of the bed and had a panic attack on the bathroom floor, staring at the tile between her knees and hyperventilating. She'd jerked, wild and desperate, every time she thought of the cold creep that had come up her spine in the dream; it was so  _familiar_. So real.

Now, she twitches a little, jerking her head to the side and dragging her nails across the back of her neck.

The witch is gone. Dead. She has been for months. June is  _alive_ , and the witch is dead.

Except, June would be an idiot to be through all she had, to see the things she had, and not believe in ghosts.

She jerks again, grinds her teeth together, sets the single-bite apple on the counter and goes to her desk. There's a stack of half-graded papers on it from her second-year Anthropology lecture, populated by a surprising number of fourth years looking to fill empty credit spots, and a book on Aztec Priestesses still open to the page Rick had dragged her away from last night.

June dogears and closes it, pulling her laptop from her briefcase and typing ' _Harleen Quinzel'_ into the search bar as soon as Google Chrome wakes up.

This has become a habit; she searches Harley's aliases alternatively - she doesn't know what she's looking for anymore, now Harley's been found, but sometimes something new pops up.

Today, it's the same old same old. Youtube clips of news broadcasts of the Arkham breakout; of the missing Psychiatrist, presumed to be a victim of the Joker's wrath.

_"We mourn for Dr. Quinzel. She was a bright young woman, optimistically determined to cure the Joker of himself. She believed firmly in rehabilitation and showed great promise as a psychiatrist. We will miss her dearly,"_

"Never should have left her alone with him," June grinds out in undertones, glaring at the grey-templed, grainy doctor on her screen. She sighs, gets up to pour herself a cup of coffee, and comes back.

There's mugshots - they show a clear disintegration; the first one lacks any tattoos, the next catches her mid-cackle. The one taken before Harley was brought to Belle Reve always makes June feel nauseous; she looks underfed, ill and malnourished amidst the gaudy adornments strapped to her skin. June hates that the first thing she thought when she saw the photo was that Harley looked like a hooker, but it's  _still_ a comparison that forces it's way into her thoughts, making June drag her nails back across her neck again and exit out of the page.

After that, there's articles. They details robberies and murders, all attributing them to the Joker but unable to truly pin any of it on Harley. June doesn't really  _know_ how many people Harley's killed - she doesn't know if Harley's killed any people at all. She doesn't count what she did in Midway City; June had killed them first. Harley was just cleaning up her mess.

June's hit the bottom of the first mug when she hears the shower turn on and gets up, morning light now skewing its way across the living room carpet and kitchen tile. She refills, grabs the apple again, and wanders past the open, blank computer without any real direction. Her first lecture is in four hours and she'd like to stop by the hospital on her way to the University, but she can't get in the shower until Rick is out, and ends up standing in the doorframe of the empty spare bedroom.

She doesn't know why she searches Harley's name anymore; she knows all the articles by heart, the pictures live in the back of her brain like a cancer.

Idly, June wonders if they'll take another one when they take Harley back to Belle Reve.

Then, she wonders if Harley has to go back to Belle Reve at all.

\--

"Absolutely _not_ ," 

Waller's office is fairly sized and done in fittingly dark colours. For all the extreme control the woman exhibits over other people, it's a little messy; seems like a fairly well-lived in place, and June supposes it may _actually_ be lived in. Instead of taking her work home with her, the woman brings home to work. June wonders if she's got any family; a husband, kids, parents, siblings. A boyfriend, even. Or girlfriend, maybe - June's never gotten much of a read off the woman in that sense, and now probably isn't the time to try for it.

"How could you talk to _her_ without talking to me first?" Rick shoots at her, and she closes her eyes on the urge to roll them. _Idiot._

"Would you have listened?" She snaps, and he glares at her, jaw working.

"No, 'cause you're bein' fucking crazy,"

"She saved your life!" June's voice hits high, cracks in the back of her throat on the insistence. "You told me yourself; those... things, were trying to bring you to me. _It_. And she saved your life," She goes on, trying to get a hold of herself, trying to keep her voice even.

"So, what? You wanna be best friends forever?" He sits forward, scathing; "You want us to be one big happy _family_?" 

Rick gets condescending, mean, when he feels blindsided, outnumbered. June takes a breath, ignores the taunt of the statement. Waller is the bridge she has to cross, right now.

"I want to save _her_ life," 

"At the risk of your own?" Waller interrupts, and June flicks her eyes back to the woman.

"If Harley Quinn wanted me - any of us - dead, we'd be dead," June says, raising an eyebrow. "You know that as well as I do. Aside from that, she's got a bomb in the back of her skull that you both have the trigger button for. _You_ built our house. The windows are bulletproof, the walls are reinforced steel. It's got the same fortifications as a prison, with better furnishings. There's panic buttons everywhere. And I know there's soldiers watching me day and night, anyway - " she breaks off, looks at Rick; he locks his jaw, looks down. "And you'd be expending the manpower watching Harley in Belle Reve, what is it to relocate them?"

Waller scoffs, turns her attention back to her computer.

"She didn't just save Rick, either! She saved me! She cut that thing's heart out, and she saved you, too!"

"Get out of my office,"

"We might be able to help her!" June exclaims, pushing up from her chair, the pulse of black that's begun to precipitate rushes of anger fluttering in the corners of her vision. Fuck control. "She's not a weapon, she's a person. She's sick. She needs _help_ , and for the first time, she might actually want it - are you really not going to take advantage of that? You're going to, what, lock her back up in Belle Reve, strapped to a bed until she gives birth? Is she even going to get to hold her baby before you take it from her and force her back out with the Task Force?" 

Waller is watching her with one eyebrow raised, judgmental and unimpressed.

"That's exactly what you're going to do," June realizes, takes a step back, between she and Rick's chairs, in horror. "You're going to keep that baby, try and raise it into a weapon, and use it to get Harley to do what you want,"

"Dr. Moone," Waller starts as June turns away, and she whips back, pointing a finger at her.

"No!" She jabs it, shaking her head. "Those are _people_. They've done bad things. They've done terrible, awful things, and I know it, but they're still _people_. Harley's sick, and afraid, and you're going to use that to your own ends," she takes a breath, spares Rick a sickened glance. "The same way you used me," It's a low shot, a kick below the belt, and she doesn't care. She drops her hand, black pulsating into her vision, and turns to leave the room.

" _Dr. Moone_ ," Waller insists, and June stops, hand on the door. "I was going to say, you may have a point,"

June's heart drops into her stomach, heavy and thick, and her fingers tighten on the doorhandle. 

"Waller - "  
  
"Flag, she does. Quinn's no use to us in her state; but it _is_ a state we can use. She likes your fiancée, trusts her. Giving her a real bed in a real house, a place to feel safe, maybe even some kind of normal, along with the intense therapy _you_ suggested? It could do her some good. We could come out of this with a Harley Quinn that's working for us because she wants to, not because she's got a bomb in her neck," the last sentence is vaguely mirthful; June can picture the smirk even with her back turned. "Not that we're going to take the bomb out."

With that, it's decided. There's an extra security detail added to their house and a double bed delivered for the empty room, fitted with shackling and other things June doesn't want to ask about. She does her best with it; buys new sheets - guesses and goes for a solid block of pale pink - makes up the bed. Waller gives her a budget and she fills the dresser in the bedroom with basics based on Harley's current measurements and maternity clothes predictions. It's mostly graphic tshirts, a few pairs of jeans and a lot of yoga pants - but on a whim she picks up a few dresses; all bright, attention grabbing. It all gets folded and put away, hung up, and the night before June is supposed to pick her up, Rick sits in silence across from her at the dinner table.

"Are you going to stay angry about this?" June asks, finally, after a week of lock-jawed silence, and Rick huffs, a scoffing sound, his eyes on his plate. "Rick -" 

"What's your thing about her, anyway? She'sa  _psychopath_ ," he snaps, and June was ready for this, buries back the anger that's started to come in instant reaction to people labeling Harley away so easily.

"She's not," she says, soft, and he grimaces, shaking his head and continuing not to look up. June takes a breath, leans across the table to rest her fingers on his hand, curled into a fist. " _Baby_ ," she mutters, brushes her fingertips along to his wrist. He doesn't move; he doesn't even flinch, and June pulls away, drops back in her seat. 

"I had you," she gives, fits her fingers together in her lap and looks down to watch her thumbs rotate each other. 

"What?"

"I had you. I had you vouching for me - when you found me, it was at the end of a trail of bodies. I _remember_ , Rick; I was there for everything she did. I felt _all_ of it," she takes a long, shuddering breath, looks back up to find him _finally_ looking at her, eyes wide.

She hasn't told him this. He knows she remembers some things - but she hasn't told him she saw _everything_ , was present for every moment. She hasn't told anyone how it felt; the rush of power that came along with the disgust, how they were equal. "You found me, and you wanted me anyway. You fell in love with me anyway. You let me love you back, even though you knew what was happening to me - you knew what I could do. _I had you_. I was never alone," she takes another breath, hears as much as feels the cracking of it as she tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, because he _needs_ to understand. Even if she doesn't. Even if she's not giving him the _whole_ reason, because the whole reason doesn't make any sense - doesn't make any sense because she does, in fact, love him, and how can she want them both at the same time?

But she does. She can't tell him that part, won't tell anyone that part - but if he's the man she thinks he is, if he is the man she loves, he'll understand what she _is_ saying.

"She's completely alone. She has no one. We don't know the last time she had someone. Without you, I would have been locked up with the rest of them, drugged out of my mind and subject to... _God_ knows what," she brings a hand up, scraping her nails across her forehead, then putting her fingers into her hair. "You gave me a chance. I just want to give her one, too,"

Rick looks pained. His eyebrows are drawn, his jaw clenched, lips pursed. He looks like he's been hit in the gut - he looks like _she's_ hit him in the gut, but she doesn't back down, keeps her eyes on his, her hands folded in her lap, counts out the beats of her breathing.

"You were... there?" He asks eventually, wincing like the words are cutting their way up his throat. June inhales, nods.

"I remember everything, Rick,"


	9. Chapter 9

It's fucked up.

Everything about this, _obviously_ , is fucked up - but what's really fucked is that looking at her differently. Harley (Frances) Quinn is not used to lying motionless; she's used to being restrained, but only for hours at a time, and she's been chained to a hospital bed for over a week now; she feels like she's losing her mind. She would have, already, if she wasn't so determined not to give these assholes the satisfaction - _and_ , if it weren't all so _fascinatingly fucked up_.

What's fucked up? What's _different_ about the way they're looking at her?

For the first time, ever, they're looking at her like she's sane.

They're looking at her with malice, and hate, and maybe some pity, but they're looking at her like she's human. Like she's not a complete nutjob. _Because she tried to kill herself_.

For some reason, to them, the ability to completely bury her humanity and rip her body open in an attempt to defy every survival instinct she's ever had makes her  _normal_.

 _It's fucking hilarious_.

It's the best joke Harley's heard in months, though a close second is the plot that's been cooked up for her to play house with June and her Soldier Boy.

They told her two days ago; Waller came in in all her 'I own the world' glory - which, really, Harley thinks is stupid, because isn't what happened June did  _Waller's_  fault, after all? - and told her she wouldn't be going back to Belle Reve. For a second, a half-second filled with shutterings of hope, she'd thought she was heading directly for Death Row.

But, no, no, of course it wouldn't be that easy. Harley was going to live with June. _Live_ with her. Like they were friends; like they were normal, and Harley was just down on her luck and needed a couch to crash on.

_"You'll be locked into your room every night. Their house is as reinforced as Belle Reve ever was, and there will be twenty four hour security, so don't get any ideas. You try to get out, you die. You'll be having weekly doctor visits and see a psychiatrist every four days. Dr. Moone will take over your medical care apart from that. You should thank her,"_

Harley hadn't felt any sort of gratitude at it - an odd sense of heat in the center of her chest, maybe; the tightening, painful and _good_ all at once, that came every time she thought about June - but she hadn't felt relieved, hadn't felt thankful. Just suspicious. Just _angry_.

She doesn't understand how it's come to this; whether they're forcing her on June or June asked for it, how they've decided it's worth putting a target on June's back for... what? What's the _point_?

_"I still got that bomb in my neck?"_

_"Of course, Ms. Quinn,"_

It's become habit; a tick is what Harley would call it if she watching herself - she's not sure if she's imagining the itch of the nanite explosive or if she can actually feel it, but drags her nails at it the moment her wrists are free of the cuffs.

It's time for her shower; her only respite from being shackled flat, and her wrists are re-shackled, now to her ankles, as soon as she lets her hand drop. The nurse has to help her get up; it's humiliating - she's spending so much time on her back that the cotton-brain dizziness of standing has her stumbling every time the nurse lets go of her.

It's _awful_ , and what's worse is the look of sympathetic pity the nurse - the _only_ member of the hospital staff Harley hasn't fantasized about murdering - gives her, helping her stand.

"Last time, love,"

"Last time _here_ ," Harley bites out, clarifying, winces when she puts weight on her ankles. The woman gives mindless encouragement, helping Harley to her feet amidst the shackling. She feels disgustingly exposed in the paper-thin hospital gown, gives the guards a glare, and lets herself be lead into the bathroom. One follows, door locking shut behind their back - and Harley should be used to getting naked with this much company, but she still prickles at the vulnerability of it.

The nurse - Jillian, Jill, who's been checking on Harley multiple times a day and even has even sat with her, offering an interlude to mindless boredom with a pocket game of chess - turns Harley, so her back is to the door and the guard, and starts undoing the ties on the gown. The continuous brush of her knuckles on Harley's shoulder blades is rhythmic, soothing; Harley lets her eyes close and her head drop forward, and foggy exhaustion creeps up her spine.

She's so _tired_.

"Here we go, love," Jillian prompts, and Harley takes the hand held out beside her to help her under the lukewarm spray. The movement the ankle cuffs allow her is minimal; she can barely separate her legs enough to get over the ridge of the shower, and clutches hard to the nurse's hand to try and keep her balance. 

The idea of tripping and falling in front of the boneheads in black is a horrifying one. She's already completely powerless; at least in Belle Reve she'd had her physicality - she'd been stronger, faster, than all of them. Now she's walking pigeon-toed and can practically  _feel_ her muscles atrophying the longer she lays still.

She's still smarter than them, at least. She'll never lose that. She's smarter than  _all_ of them - they think the black masks give them anonymity and don't know how different their statures are, their voices. The doctor thinks if he doesn't acknowledge her she won't remember him. They think she's at their mercy - and really, she is; for  _now_.

For now, though, she's left in continual silence, and Harley's had a lot of time to _think._

She hates it. She hates thinking; at the least, she hates when she runs out of other people to think about. When she runs out of fantasies on how to kill the guards, on how to string Waller up in a cage and make her scream, make her squirm, she ends up back at June. And not just June as June outside of herself - June in that stupid little hole she's managed to dig into Harley's chest. June, dead-blue and the voice that's as warm as it is dry, and the blunted nails that trace Jester Diamonds on the inside of Harley's arm every time she comes to visit. June isn't so bad; June is the best of it - it's when June divulges into a clockwork jaw and bloodstained lips and the turning, catching gears in an ungreased laugh. It's memories that she _wants_ to be good but are bad - and eventually, June ends up trying to figure out where, and when, and how.

They don't use condoms. They never have, they don't have time for them; she's always been on the pill, always, always - the only medication she's ever bothered to take outside of jail time. It happened early, she knows that; she can do  _math_ \- but she wishes it hadn't, wishes it had been later, when he was a little less angry and a little less forceful and her hips hadn't been painfully purpled. And so it goes; dead-blue to shockingly bright behind blown pupils and then it's soft, and wondering, and Harley's come up with every image of Baby that she can. The exact image of Harley, the exact image of J - a perfect mixture of them both; a reflection of what Harley remembers of her parents against J's naturally dark hair. She's thought about a boy, and a girl, and despite the doctor's insistence that there's only one this time, she's thought about  _both_ , one of each or copies of each other. That's as far as she gets, though - pictures of what might  _be_ Baby. She can't think past that; her brain stops, goes back to J, goes back to Belle Reve, goes back to razor blades and  _no way out._

"Honey?" Jillian prompts, and Harley flicks her eyes up from her stomach, where her shackled wrists just cover the apex of her thighs, to find the woman looking at her with concern. "All right?"

Harley stares at her for a moment, then clears her throat, nods, steps back under the spray of water to get her hair wet and flats her hands the best she can against her abdomen, still thinking about grey eyes and dark hair.

There's a knock on the door while Jill is helping her wash the shampoo from her hair - Harley feels infuriatingly useless, needing as much as help as she does because of how she's bound - and Harley tries to turn and look as the guard addresses someone through the crack of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, June steps in, and for the first time in a long time, Harley feels a rush of self-consciousness creep up her chest and betray itself on her cheeks.

Nudity isn't something Harley thinks about a lot. Or cares about, ever. She's next to naked most of the time, and she knows she looks _good_ , but the way June glances at her through the open shower door and then down makes embarrassment spread hot across Harley's face.

She can't remember the last time someone looked _away_.

"I brought you some clothes - I went off the measurements they had on file. If they don't fit, I can get new ones..." the girl trails off, fiddling with the folded she's set on the sink counter, and Harley takes a breath.

No, she _isn't_ looking forward to being under round the 'clock from Dick Flag himself, but she can't deny that she's ready for a bed that isn't hospital or prison. Can't deny that part of her is something like warmed by the idea of living with June. 'Jailed by' is probably a better way of putting it, but Harley's imagination gets away from her, and despite the rushing of _pissed off_ she keeps feeling at the situation, June's dug a hole into Harley's chest. She's found a place to fit herself, a place that had ached in dull tandem beside the blinding, consuming love Harley had been wrapped up in in her brief interlude between nightmares, an obsession that pulsed itself back to screaming every time her man, her J, stepped into view.

Harley knows. She's not _stupid_. She hasn't forgotten everything she ever learned - she knows she's infatuated, obsessed; she's _not_ crazy, she's not unaware. She knows they aren't something anyone else could ever understand - the way she loves him isn't something normal people know how to feel. They wouldn't be able to cope with the all-consuming desire to do _anything_ , to die, to live for the other. They don't _get it_.

_He doesn't care about you. He's never cared about you._

June had been shouting.

Harley knows June was someone who keeps herself locked up tight; but it's a tension that isn't really all that _tense_. June doesn't ebb anxious energy, or panic; she's endlessly calm, endlessly patient. The walls come up in the quiet, in her silence; her pain is in the empty places. Something happened to her. Something, Harley's sure, before Enchantress. Something that put up wall after wall after wall around the pit that's how June really  _feels_  - and the shouting, the outburst, had been the most fervent expression of _any_ kind of emotion Harley had ever seen from her. It had made the dull ache Harley had held for her spring back to life, had hollowed something under her ribcage, and when the girl had turned back to her, a long-dead feeling had crawled itself up to Harley like a kind of resurrection.

 _Fear_.

June's eyes had been glowing - a bright, sharp orange. It had only been for a moment, and Harley had a reputation for seeing things, but in that half-second she'd been confronted, she was sure, with whatever of the Enchantress was still left inside June. You didn't get touched by something like that, something so dark, and walk away unscathed; there was part of whatever _it_ had been still clinging to the dark parts in June, Harley was sure.

That Harley had brought it out in June in such unforgiving fervency had been terrifying. And, in retrospect, vaguely flattering.

Now, though, there's no sign of the witch-bitch. It's June, just June, respectfully (adorably) keeping her gaze averted as Harley's helped out of the shower.

"Even if that does fit, I dunno for how long," Harley observes, watching June pointedly _not_ watch her as Jill helps towel her dry. June drags her teeth across her lip, shaking her head.

"I took care of that too," the ache swells like liquid heat, and Harley lets out a breath.

"Real prepared," she gives, tries at teasing, and a smile tugs at the corner of June's mouth. _Bingo_.

"Take the shackles off," June says to the guard instead of replying to Harley, and Harley's eyebrows go to her hairline. There's no ifs, ands or buts about the request - it's an _order_ , even though it's given gently, and she watches the guard stiffen up against the door. "I'm her guardian as of now. Take the shackles off. She can't get dressed with them on and she can't wear them when we leave, anyway; it'll draw too much attention," there's a breath, a sigh of sorts, and she goes on; "I'll handcuff her in the car," the words are regretful, vaguely indignant, and Harley _likes_ it.

June's been arguing with the soldiers since day one, but she's obviously starting to chafe under the authoritative control of Amanda fucking Waller, and Harley grins, wondering just how far the resentment might take them.

Harley rubs tenderly at the bandaging on her wrists as the leather cuffing is pulled from her ankles. She flexes, rolls her wrists out, nearly too grateful for the freedom of the feeling to remember that she's stark fucking naked.

 _Nearly_.

June's eyes are on her face (and only her face) as she hands Harley a pair of plain white cotton panties and a simple black bra, and it's endearing, how hard June is trying not to look - endearing and annoying, because from the hole the girl's dug herself in Harley's ribcage, there's a shouting insisting she _wants_ her to.

That voice has only shouted for one other person, and Harley thinks that the sudden earnestness of it for someone else is why she's _still fucking blushing_.

If June would just _look_ at her, she'd be less embarrassed - less self conscious, she decides, and makes a show of fumbling fingers as she slips the bra on.

"The clasp - " she starts, and June's eyebrow arches for a half-second before she understands the plea, nodding.

"Sure," her lips press together and Harley turns for her, still not yet having put on the panties, and closes her eyes as warm hands brush the skin at her shoulders to pull on the straps. Harley has her doubts that June gets her nails _done_ , but they're cut and blunted so she can only feel the tips of the girl's fingers against her, where she fumbles at least once, making Harley grin. "Sorry," June mutters, and the clasp connects, and Harley can feel the hovering of the girl's hands over her back. "Good?"

Harley pulls at the underwire of the bra, adjusting it and shifting enough to press back into the hover hands, so June's palms flush full to her shoulder blades. It's not quite a gasp, but the girl inhales, sharp, and the hands jump away.

 _This_ is what Harley's used to. This feels like control, and she nods. "Thanks, sugar,"

The nurse tells June about the medications Harley's on and when her bandaging can come off as Harley finishes getting dressed, hissing at the new pressure of denim against the self-imposed, sloppy stab in her leg. _Should've started there_ , she thinks ruefully, but she'd been over-emotional and over-dramatic and gone for her wrists first.

That had been easy; long, straight lines from her pulse points down. The well of bright red against white had been _magnificent_ , and there'd been an odd sense of instant relief. The panic had dissipated as she watched it flow, and textbook-type sentences about the addiction of self-harm and the release of adrenalin had floated to her in the suddenly cooled state.

She'd stared, watched the blood drip from her arms to her lap, to the tiled floor of the apartment she and J had been holed up in for the week. It had been mesmerizing, and it wasn't until the dizziness had begun to creep along her spine and black along her vision that Harley had realized it wouldn't be enough. She'd pass out, but someone would find her before she was dead, and then she'd _really_ be in trouble.

So she'd done her ankles - mirrored her wrists, enjoyed the symmetry of the cuts, how easily her skin gave under the slicing edge of the knife J had given her for Christmas the year before. It was like cutting through butter, and she'd been too caught up in it to realize how _stupid_ she was being, occupied with the show of it, when she should have just opened a main artery and been done with it.

She doesn't really remember jamming the knife into her leg, but the throb of it under the jeans is proof that it happened, and Harley runs her thumb along the inseam.

"Harley?" June prompts, pulls her attention back, and Harley jerks her head up to find the girl looking at her with that _worried_ expression she's started to wear so well.

"Not used to pants with this much fabric," she explains away easily - doesn't want to talk to June about what she did, how she did it. She doesn't think the girl will see it as the same kind of beautiful Harley did.

There's a surge, strong and painful, for the Joker, and Harley takes a breath.

"You ready?" June asks, looking like she doesn't really believe her, and Harley nods.

"Sure baby," she tugs the sleeves of the tshirt she's been given over her hands; "It's your funeral."

Harley gets to walk out next to June, free of restraints, and when she puts up a faux-fuss about not getting the five star treatment, her lack of customary wheelchair, June rolls her eyes and it's almost companionable. They're going for inconspicuous, she says, and Harley snorts because she knows it's a test. The walk through the hospital, out of it, across the parking lot - she knows they're being watched and puts on her best show of _well-behaved_ , Not only does she not feel like getting cuffed again so soon, but there's a new image that keeps jumping to her, faceting itself from different angles like looking through a kaleidoscope.

Morning sun slits across kitchen tile and Harley pours hot water into two mugs. One, boring black, matching the rest of June's set - the other a standout, brightly coloured; something caffeinated in the first, something like honey lemon in the second. Chopped up fruit and toast set out on the kitchen table and June's walking in, in a ponytail and pyjamas, baby tucked to her side like he's never fit anywhere better. His hair is dirty blonde and his fingers fit in the collar of June's tshirt as she comes up to Harley - as her lips press against Harley's cheek, and Harley pulls back to find two sets of identical dead-blue looking at her.

"This is us," June cuts into the image, gesturing towards the car Harley's followed her to on autopilot, and it's so incredibly suburban and _predictable_ that Harley laughs.

"You're a fucking soccer mom," she accuses, tracing the Subaru-silver around the window and watching June from over the top of the car.

"Just get it," June gives, little room for argument but a smile under the words, and Harley's laughter falls dead when she opens the passenger door and finds 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' sitting on the seat, waiting for her. June shoots her a look that's got some kind of guilty in it from the driver's seat, turning the keys, and shrugs.

"I thought it was appropriate," she says, and Harley slides into the car, turns the book over in her hands and flips it open to a random page to find pink, yellow and blue highlights all over. June groans. "Shit, sorry, that's my copy,"

"You're pregnant?" The question bounds out of her before she can check her tone, and even Harley can hear the accusation in it, feels that same defeated jump of jealousy jump in her stomach at the idea. June looks at her, wide eyed and brow knit.

"No," she says, shakes her head. "I read it for you. I didn't -" she breaks off, eyes dropping from Harley's face, and then turns to drop back with a pointed _thud_ against her seat. The jealousy is still there; lessened, but there's a pounding of it, because Harley can't _help_ but picture June and Rick together, and there's a heat that presses into her lower back, between her legs, just as fervently with the picture. It pisses her off as much as it turns her on and if _that_ wasn't confusing enough, June goes on; "I didn't want you to feel like you were alone."

The words sound almost like they're said through gritted teeth; like it's some kind of admission June's been trying to bury, and _oh_. Harley snaps the book shut in her lap, turns from June to look straight ahead, and tries to blink away the sudden urge to cry.

"Harley?"

"Hormones," she coughs out, brings a hand up to wipe under her eye, frustration bubbling up as fervently as _this_ stupid urge had.

Harley's used to feeling everything at once; she's used to ups and downs in a matter of minutes, but she's _not_ used to not being able to hide it, and the continued stillness of the car flares it even higher.

"Are we gonna fucking go?" She snaps, turning a glare on the girl beside her, and instead of flinching - instead of having any sort of _normal person_ reaction to the temperamental murderer in her passenger seat, June just inclines her head.

Harley would be convinced the woman was a certifiable idiot if she weren't as obviously intelligent as she is the rest of the time. Maybe she's just an adrenalin junkie. Maybe Harley's how she's getting her hits.

"You're not wearing your seatbelt," she says, and Harley takes a moment to process the words, double taking from June's face to the belt in question, hanging from the wall of the car.

She hasn't worn a seatbelt in a really, really long time. She doesn't think J's car even had seatbelts, and the movement to pull it down has the sense of automatic long forgotten. She clicks it into place, and before she can say anything else, they pull out of the parking spot.

"You haven't cuffed me," Harley observes as they pull onto the road, readjusting in her seat and idly running her fingers along her wrists. She doesn't look at June with the comment; she's learned to appreciate the view every time she manages to get one, and watches the sidewalk run by, eyes flicking between drivers in seats, in their own worlds, completely oblivious to their presence - or that of the police escort they've been honoured with, triangling them in black SUVs over the expanse of the street.

"Are you complaining?" June gives, a little rueful, and at that Harley turns her head, lets it roll against the headrest to look at the other girl. June flicks a glance at her, eyebrows knitting and lips in a judge-smirk, and Harley laughs.

"Rebel, lying to the boneheads," she mutters, and the smirk turns into a full blown grin.

"I don't really see the point. It's just me in the car, if you want out of them you'll get out of them - and, I can't see shackles like that being good for your stitches," June explains, and Harley turns her head back to look forward, considering.

It's not like what she did hasn't been acknowledged; rather irritatingly, really, it keeps coming up - but no one has mentioned it as  _casually_ as June just did; just a comment on her stitches.

Just a comment on healing.

"Why'd they leave you alone with me in the car anyhow?"

"I'm going to be alone with you in the house," June supplies, and Harley presses her lips together, knitting her brow. The answer is less of an an answer and more a segway to more questions, and Harley knits her brow, trying to decide where to start.

"What about Flag?"

"I mean during the day,"

"Don't you work?" Harley leans forward a little, towards the other girl. "C'mon, soccer mom. You're a quiet life nine-to-fiver, don't lie to me; you're  _predictable_ ,"

June snorts. It's endearing; it shouldn't be, but it is and she shakes her head and shoots Harley a  _look_.

"I was possessed by an inter-dimensional demon,"

"Okay,  _aside_ from that,"

"I got possessed because I was wandering a jungle alone in the middle of the night," and Harley laughs, at the defensive  _don't call me that_ Elementary way June's arguing over her predictability.

"Fine, fine," she sighs, reaches out to pat June consolingly on the thigh. "You're a wild card,"

It's the first time Harley's initiated the contact; it would have been a difficult task, tied to a bed, and she wants to  _grab_. She wants to dig her fingertips into June's leg, run her thumb in hard circles, she wants to touch her - real and solid and genuine.

She doesn't.

"'Wild card' is what they call you in your file," June says, and this time  _Harley_ snorts.

"Takes one to know one," she gives, drops her hands back onto the book in her lap and settles to watch June drive.

She does it one handed; her left hand is fitted between her legs, and she tilts a little to reach over the wheel and hit the signal for a left as they come up to it, then flats her palm against it for the turn. It's simple; it looks like it comes naturally to her and Harley wonders if it's June or Rick that drives when they go together.

"Still, though," she starts, abandoning the thought as soon as it turns to the Vaydor and J's gun shoved in the glove compartment. "I know you're a workaholic,"

"Takes one to know one," June throws back, and Harley scoffs.

"Say that in the file too?" June shakes her head, pulls her hand up from between her legs and glances around, like she's checking to see if they're being watched, before adjusting, bringing her leg up to rest her left foot on the inside of the car door.

It's hot. It shouldn't be hot; but it's casual and it's easy and fuck you, it's  _hot_ , and June gives her a glance at the red light.

"You skipped two grades and got your PhD at twenty four. It didn't have to say it,"

"Maybe I'm just a genius," Harley suggests, watches June's hand drop to curl fingers over the bottom of the wheel.

"I've seen your I.Q. score, you are a genius," she says, rattling it off like it doesn't mean anything that she knows all these things about Harley. Doesn't even  _know_ ; remembers, catalogued. Like she cares about it. "Not that I needed that to know you are. You're brilliant,"

She offers the compliment like it's nothing; a fact, a simple truth, and Harley knows that technically it  _is_ \- but she can't remember the last time she was complimented for her brain and turns away, to watch out the windshield instead.

"Anyway," June starts again, "I work at Louisiana State, but I've only got a few lectures a week at this point, a couple hours a day. I'll be working from home for the most part, you won't have to be locked in your room."

Harley wonders if June goes to work dressed as casually as she usually is; jeans and tshirts, or if she goes for something a little more academic, if there's pencil skirts and blazers and a little bit of jewellery. She drifts, wonders what other clothes June's bought for her - what her room will be, if she's going to be tortured with the presence of baby stuff or tortured without it, if Flag is going to be there when they pull up, all chin up and defiant and asking to get punched in the face.

He's not. She's gone, when they do pull up; June has to prompt her back, but Harley blinks the boring-beige garage door into focus and it's just them, unless she's counting the SUV that pulls up to the sidewalk, which she's not.

"Quaint," Harley declares, not sure if it's a compliment or a shot herself, and June shrugs.

"You ready?"

One hand is on the car door, one on the wheel like she's going to use it for leverage. Her glasses are slipping a little on her nose with the way her head is inclined under the question, and Harley is struck by just  _how much_ she  _wants_ June to care.

She wants June to care about her. Worry about her. She hates that she does; it's stupid as fuck, Harley isn't any of June's goddamn business, but she  _wants_ it, and the force of it feels like elastic bands on her lungs.

_You ready?_

_No._

"Yeah," Harley agrees, opening her door as June does hers, and  _fuck_ if the sun doesn't feel quite as painfully bright as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. this is not my favourite chapter; it had originally been much longer and there'd been more to it, but I wrote and lost the last half of it twice in like three days and couldn't find the route i'd taken again. But alas! Lots of June and Harley! And I promise; we're gonna pick back up with the drama ASAP. Feedback welcome, always. Xx.


	10. can you feel the fall?

The locking on the front door is _elaborate_.

On the whole, the house appears nonchalant; single-story, a two-car garage with bushes in front of a stained-wood porch. The porch even has a porch _swing_ ; the bushes have flowers, there's a little kaleidoscope-coloured light catcher hanging in the window - it's _domestic_.

But they get closer, and Harley sees; the porch steps are dirty, there's no welcome mat, and there's an overfilled ashtray sitting next to a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the table that goes along with the porch swing. The picture has flaws.

The most obvious flaw; the aforementioned door. The high-security mechanisms are only half-heartedly concealed, and Harley wonders if they're standard for any house built by the government for their more important weapons, or if it was done just in her honour; if the thumbprint scanner, the swipe of June's ID card, the multiple keys and number code are a testament to how afraid they are of her.

She decides that it is, that it must be, because the faux-wood paneling on the door she assumes is there to hide what's probably reinforced steel doesn't look as weathered as the doorframe, and she grins a little at the compliment as she follows June inside.

Despite the flaws, upon stepping inside Harley can see that _quaint_ really is the best word for the place; the door opens on the living room, hardwood with walls painted in light green. There's an armchair and two mismatched couches, set up like maybe they have company more often than they don't, and handmade blankets thrown over every available surface. It's all centered on the television, and across from the collection is a desk Harley assumes is June's.

It's big, built for a corner, and covered in papers. There's a Mac computer open on it and two different textbooks - Harley thinks from where she stands that they might be colour coded, but everything is _everywhere_ and Harley's never thought to characterize June as disorganized but _damn_.

"Is this what the inside of your head looks like?" Harley gives, gesturing to the mess as she starts towards it. "I'm supposed to be the psycho,"

"Sometimes," is June's response, and she starts a half-step into Harley's line of view; not quite in front of the desk, but not _not_ in front of it, and her head tilts. "I'll explain, later," she gives, eyes flicking from Harley's to the wall behind her and the archway encased within in, where linoleum tile is visible. "Let me show you the rest of the house,"

The 'rest of the house' is a tour she doesn't need; it's all the same, in the (infuriating) air of young-couple domesticity. The kitchen is long, the sink against the far wall under a window that looks over the street, and the fridge and stove are fit into the limited counter-space perpendicular to it. Across from that is the kitchen table; a half circle of well-made wood, the flat edge fitted against the wall, joined by three chairs that look permanent and bearing another next-to-empty cup of coffee. Aside from that (and Harley wonders at it, has a hard time picturing Mr. Righteous being anything but military-neat, thinks the bits left-behind must be June's and notes that she drinks her coffee black) and June's desk, it's all lived-in but clean, nice, and it makes Harley's throat tight.

It's not that she's ever been a slob, but it's been a long time since she's been anywhere long enough to really  _care_ about the way a place looked; there've always been other things to focus on - and suddenly, the bright, stainless steel sink, the crumb-free linoleum and the streak-less windows are _all_ she can focus on.

She inhales; or, tries. The attempt of air to lungs makes her throat get a little tighter; and she can feel the fabrication of her presence in the place - like an intrusion in her own body; like walking into a haunted house, she knows it, she can _hear_ it.

She shouldn't be here. (The walls don't want her).

But she is. (And June does).

Harley follows.

She keeps her eyes off the collection of family photos hung in the hall, not wanting to see where June came from  _before_ \- even less wanting images of Flag and his undoubtedly All-American upbringing; but she can feel the eyes in the pictures on her anyway, glaring accusation - because they know _, they_   _know_ that she doesn't belong, and it makes her skin crawl.

Harley grits her teeth, forcing herself to pay attention to her surroundings. It's important, to know the ins and outs. She needs to know where she can hide.

Unlike the one at the front, the doors in the hallway have made no attempt at subtlety. Reinforced steel glints bright to her right (June's room, she thinks) in the late-morning sun shining sharp from the window (which is undoubtedly bulletproof, but also half-blocked by a tree boasting blossoms so purple it makes her feel ill) to the left, and a few feet down from that is where Harley's introduced to her own. This door is steel too, and June has to press fingers to a little electronic pad and enter a passcode before they hear the click of lock-beams pulling out of place.

The bedroom (cage) has a hotel quality to it, in that obvious absence of lived-in despite personal touch - and June’s tried; Harley can see that she's tried. The bed is made up in pale pink sheets and a light grey duvet, and there's an armchair in the corner, next to another window and bearing a blanket that has the same handmade look as the others in the house.

Harley doesn't look too long at the empty space under the window, in perfect line with the perfect chair; tries not to consider the implication of it, tries not to think about what June was picturing when she did it - tries, tries, _tries_. (Fails) - but there's a dresser on the wall across from it, the top of which bears a line of books, and so Harley goes there, first; to the familiarity, lacking the idyllic qualities that have her head swimming.

She snorts when she reads over the titles, sliding free a paperback with a Fabio-style six pack on the glossy cover. “Thinkin’ I'll get lonely, sugar?” She asks, holding it up so the front faces June and tapping her forefinger against it. It's easier for her to tease than to do anything else, even if she's worried with every exhale that she's going to throw up.

June rolls her eyes, and Harley smirks - tries, at least, around the overwhelming desire to bolt.

“Variety,” she supplies, and someone with the credentials June has should be more prone to speaking with proper sentence structure, but Harley's noticed that she only ever offers the building blocks of her thoughts, leaving it up to the other side of the conversation to care enough to put it together.

Harley wonders if she does that with everyone, or just her; and if it means she trusts Harley to try, or that she doesn't care if she does.

June comes forward to pull another book down and hold the hardcover spine out to Harley, embossed with SYLVIA PLATH, as though proving her point. Harley smirks a little wider; a little easier, a little more genuinely, and sets down her book to open the top drawer of the dresser.

It's underwear; cotton and plain, and Harley’s not sure what she expected, but there's an odd sense of disappointment drifting in, conflicted by the idle consideration of if this is what June wears. She likes the idea, she thinks, even if it makes her feel that much more out of place - and glances at the girl. It would make sense; June is  _practical_ , if nothing else (or at least, Harley was sure of that until this scheme came into play) and she can't picture her as much of a lacy lingerie girl.

The sensibility shouldn't be sexy, but it is. Harley shouldn't be thinking about it, but she is.

There's a lot of  _shouldn't_ that  _is_.

The second drawer is shirts - mostly of the same soft fabric June’s prone to, but in brighter colours. The rest of the dresser and the closet reveal more of the same - bright colours, solids broken up by the occasional pattern, all obviously intended to be comfortable before anything else. In particular, a pair of pale blue pyjamas decked in a print of rubber ducks, which Harley holds up with one eyebrow raised and her lips pressed together.

“They're fuzzy,” June says, arms crossed over her chest like the words are absolute and certain rationalization, leaving no room for questions.

Harley’s never wanted to fuck someone more in her life.

_Hormones._

Except; it's not hormones - but crazy people don't know they're crazy and this shit, the hollow pound in her chest that's been there since June walked into the hospital room and the _hot_ in her abdomen, in this _place_ \- is _absolutely_ crazy; so she can't _know_ that, she can't, because that makes it less crazy; that makes it real, and true, and Harley is standing in a pastel-painted bedroom holding fuzzy fucking duck-patterned pyjamas and staring at June, who is staring at her, and her thigh aches to the bone and higher, she feels desperate and _want, want, want_  and there’s no way any of this can conceivably be any kind of _real_.

(Things that shouldn't be but are - June in a grey tshirt, ponytail, and half-moon silver studs catching the light from the window in the bedroom she's put together for Harley, and no one else).

Harley starts taking her pants off. 

June’s feet stutter, starting backwards as her eyebrows hike surprise to her hairline. 

“Jesus -”

"You oughta get over that; I ain't real shy - guards have been looking all they want forever. Now's your chance," and it's a dare, and an encouragement, and a taunt, and Harley's head is pounding too hard to be embarrassed over June's embarrassment - instead, she's almost satisfied with the slight slack of June's lips while her eyes glaze and she guppies for something to say, because it's June's turn to be uncomfortable - to feel creepy-crawly and wrong, like a circle in a square hole, because it's all Harley's been feeling for as long as she can remember, and lately it's been a hell of a lot of  _June's fault_.

So she's satisfied, pleased with herself while the gears in June's temples whir so loud Harley can hear the metal throwing sparks, satisfied until the girl's jaw locks, and her eyes get hard again.

“I'm not your jailer,”

“Then who is?” Harley asks, the momentary peace found in getting under someone else's skin dissipating immediately into being irritated, pissed off, because this isn't fucking  _free,_ (even if she's not sure she'd know it if it caught her in the mouth) and stops with the soft-sky in her hands, watching the dead-sea now staring at the bandaging tight above her knee. June doesn’t answer; her eyes are wide and the rise-fall of her ribs is too fast for someone standing so still.

The lack of motion is almost absurd, actually - save the visibility of her breathing, it's almost inhuman and Harley wants to _push_.

For panic, for anger - she wants to aim the edge of a knife in the corner of that humanity; in the crack still curving along June's surface. She wants to angle the blade, perfect, and force the crack apart; force her way _in_. June deserves it, Harley thinks; for bringing her here, somewhere she doesn't belong. To something she gave up on, somewhere she walked away from a long time ago.

She wants to June to care, she hates that June does, and she needs June to _feel_ this; the inability to fit into her own skin, blood fizzing like pop rocks in a coke bottle. Hollow hammering on glass sides; Harley doesn't _fit_ here, it's not even a plane she operates on - but June does, and it's so, so, so _fucking_ unfair that Harley wants to push and poke and force until the part of her that _doesn't_ makes an appearance.

But she doesn't. For the first time, in a long time, Harley _doesn't_.

The stillness breaks; June’s fingers flex - they curl and uncurl, revealing a light coral on her nails. June’s colour schemes carry continuity, Harley notes; a lack of saturation. Everything is pale, leached of vibrancy - except for that one, single half moment where her eyes had burned bright orange. When they flick back up to meet Harley’s now, however, they’re blue; just blue, and June’s thumb fits between her fingers to spin her engagement ring.

(Things that shouldn't be but are - the room June shares with Rick down the hall, the bed they fuck in forty feet away from Harley, who's standing half naked in the house where they love each other).

“You’re a privilege, Harley, not a right,” she says, flat and dead, and turns to leave the room; “I’m making lunch. Your bathroom is across the hall,” she offers as she turns out of the room, leaving Harley standing half-dressed and holding her breath.

Harley puts on the ducky pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, guys, but if you're still here then thank you for hanging in! I know this chapter perhaps comes as a little disjointed from the previous; but Harley is disjointed, and I'm resisting the urge to explain myself past that. Anyways; as always, feedback loved, appreciated, and welcome. Xx.


	11. Chapter 11

One would expect knuckles on reinforced steel to be a clang of a noise - a bang on metal. But it's not; it's heavy and low, thundering, and Harley startles awake, shoving up from how she'd been lying on her stomach to prop up on one arm and look around the room.

She's slept here four nights, and there hasn't been a single morning that she's immediately remembered where she is. She's woken up in too many places before; too many places in the last year, and she looks wildly from pale wall to pale wall, heart pounding hard until she sees the books stacked on the dresser.

So much for all that tactical vigilance.

"Harley?" June buzzes static-soft through the intercom system installed alongside the door, the little light at the bottom of the speaker glowing green along with her voice. 

Green, green; so much goddamn green. The colour of June's stupid living room walls, the colour of J's hair, the colour of the witch-bitch's magic. _The grass is always greener_ \- what a dumb concept.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but it's ten. You should get up, and eat; Dr. Moore's going to be here at noon,"

Harley grimaces, groaning and falling back to her side on the bed. "Are you okay?" Buzzes through, and Harley lifts an arm to drop it over her eyes.

She's barely left the room in the last three days. She's _exhausted_ , she's found out - she wakes up to eat, and that's about it. In the few hours she hasn't been able to fall immediately back to sleep, she's chewed through books until she could. Because she's exhausted, but it's not _just_ that she's exhausted. 

June unlocks the door when she gets up, Harley is pretty sure. _She_ hasn't ever been awake to hear it - and it doesn't get locked again until late. The girl isn't pushing her, but she's pretty sure the constantly unsealed door is a serious security breach - and some sort of olive branch.

But Harley doesn't really know what to do with the freedom.

She'd tried, on the second day, to go sit on the couch - but she'd been unable to stop staring out the window at the black SUV parked on the curb, unable to stop feeling like the whole house was going to burn down around her at any moment; probably by way of spontaneous combustion, the simple domesticity of the place unable to keep existing with her presence inside it. If it couldn't make her leave, it would burn itself down with her inside. 

It didn't help, either, that every time a car had driven by she'd tensed up, waiting for Solider Boy to show up hulking and surly in the front door.

June had told her he'd gotten called away the morning she was coming to pick Harley up - and when Harley had asked where, she'd shook her head, smirked, and made some comment about security clearance, so Harley knew it wasn't just for her sake that June was chafing under Waller. 

She knows Flag came home last night, however; she'd heard him while she was in the bathroom and ducked across the hall as quickly as she could, feeling oddly like some sort of kid in trouble, hiding from dad. He hadn't come to the room, hadn't tried for a reintroduction, and somewhere between listening to the indistinguishable back and forth between he and June had and rereading the same page six times, Harley had managed to pass out. 

Until now, where June is warning her she's coming in and there's the hydraulic release of the heavy door opening.

"Harley," she says, and Harley _still_ feels like a pouty teenager - she supposes, maybe, that's exactly how she's acting, pulling the pillow over her head and curling up tighter, knees to her chest.

"Fuck off,"

"Come eat something,"

" _Fuck off_ ,"

"I know you're pissed off about the therapist, but it's part of the deal,"

"Fuck _you_ ,"

There's a sigh, the approach of bare feet in carpet, and a light noise of porcelain on wood. Harley tugs the pillow back a little bit, looking at the boring-black mug set on the end table, next to her stack of books.

"If that's not coffee, why is it here?" 

"You know it's not coffee,"

"Then why the fuck is it _here_ ," Harley snaps, pulling the pillow back over her eyes. There's another sigh, and a settling noise, the creak of weight pressed against wood, and when Harley pulls the pillow away she sees June sitting on the floor across from her, beside the dresser.

"Because when you smelled _my_ coffee yesterday morning you threw up in the kitchen sink," she says, tilting her head to the side and raising an eyebrow, and Harley glares at her, and she's _definitely_ being a surly, pouty teenager - but what the fuck ever. They're treating her like one, essentially - a high-risk one on extreme-security house arrest, but -

"Fuck you," Harley says again, the sharpness falling flat in her lack of wit. June doesn't even react, and Harley bites hard on her back teeth, doing her best not to be charmed by morning-June, with messy dirty-blonde pulled up in a bun, exposing the slivers of silver in her ears, her glasses a little low on her nose, in a soft sleep shirt and pyjama shorts. 

"Yeah, you mentioned that," she gives, infuriatingly calm as she readjusts to sit cross-legged. "C'mon. Rick's a much better cook than I am,"

Harley scowls, locking her jaw tighter. "Telling me Flag's out there ain't a way to get me outta the damn bed," 

"What if I tell you there's bacon out there?" She offers, and Harley doesn't want to admit that that _does_ make her perk up a little.

June, she's learned, doesn't eat meat. Which is fine, probably, because Harley's not really so good at eating it herself - it's been weeks of hospital jello, and before that eating about as much as she slept (read: barely), and a _lot_ of liquefied food before that - so she doesn't think she's likely to have much luck trying to break down a steak. 

Not that it would matter, because she's also not likely to have much more luck trying to operate a fork _and_ knife. A spoon is hard enough.

But bacon - bacon, she thinks she can do, and pulls the pillow off her head completely, propping herself up on her elbows.

June smiles.

It feels like as much a reward as the bacon. Which is, in short, _stupid_. 

"Fuck you," Harley mutters again, hanging her head so her hair falls in a curtain, eyes on the rumpled sheet she's lying on instead of  _June June June_.

"Yeah," June agrees, and the noise of wood creaking comes back, so Harley think she's standing up, but doesn't lift her head to confirm.

"He's going to eat it all if you're not out there in like, ten minutes," comes from farther away, and feet pad away until she can't hear them anymore, but she doesn't hear the door close again. 

Instead, she tilts her head a little, trying to listen past the hall, to the kitchen. She can smell the bacon, now, and it _does_ smell good. There's the sound of cutlery, and a frying pan - and voices, and Harley groans again, for the sake of no one but herself, before shoving herself out of the bed.

The mug is full of ginger tea, and the bacon smells good, but the tea smells better, the effect immediate against the morning roiling of her stomach.

She's still not going to thank June for it, though.

She takes her time on purpose, making a point of washing her face even though she's going to shower after she eats, before going out to the kitchen - and then wishes she'd taken a little more, because it's just Rick in the kitchen, June nowhere in sight.

He's got a speaker on the counter blaring classic rock and is in a muscle shirt and grey sweatpants - and Harley isn't _blind_ ; she gets it, she gets why June got on his dick in the first place. He's _hot_. He's a mass of a man with a Dorito for a torso and arms as thick as Harley's thigh and there's probably something endearing about the awful way he's half-dancing to John Mellencamp and how his hair is sticking up at ridiculous angles. 

 _Probably_. Harley can't see it. She hates him too much. Except, she can now _see_ the bacon, and so maybe she hates him a little less than she did five minutes ago. Maybe. Not likely.

She'll have to see if it's any good, first.

"Didn't picture you as a house husband, Soldier Boy," and she intends to startle him, but he doesn't jump. Neither he or June are particularly easily surprised, apparently - the latter she'd learned on day one, when she'd made some comment from the hallway arch and June, standing at her desk, hadn't skipped a beat despite not having seen her for hours, just turned and raised one of those stupid 'I-see-through-your-shit-Quinn' eyebrows.

Rick just turns too, except he doesn't do the eyebrow, and Harley wouldn't believe it if he did. June, though - June she thinks she believes, sometimes. Which makes her feel a lot more naked than standing in the bathroom had.

"Didn't picture you wearing pants that covered your ass," he shoots back, and she's glad she's in black sweats instead of the fuzzy pants, and rolls her eyes. 

"Fuck off," and Rick nods, turning back to the pan at hand.

"If you're finished your tea I got some lemon water in the fridge for ya. You really shouldn't have more than three cups of the ginger a day, so if you're feelin' sick, stick to that," he says without looking at her, and Harley just _stares_ at the back of his ridiculous head, holding the half-finished mug in both hands.

What the _fuck?_  

"The hell are you, a Gyno?" She asks, and he shrugs, head shaking. 

"I got eight nieces and nephews, learned the tricks," he says, and despite her best efforts, Harley's seen the photos hung in the hallway. Solider Boy comes from a _ludicrously_  huge family - full of big guys with brown-blonde hair and dark eyes. In contrast to his expanse of pictures - of men that must be brothers with a whole variety of different, (but beautiful), women and kids in constant motion - there's two photos of what she's pretty sure is June's family. One is June, looking to probably be a teenager, standing with two women; one looking a couple years older in a graduation gown, and another looking young enough to be a sister but smiling like she's their mom. They're all blonde, but June is the only one with blue eyes.

A broken home, single mom, youngest sister - it makes sense. Harley's never pictured June as coming from a big family - if she did, she'd probably be less awkward; she'd be more comfortable with touch and things like affection - or, at least, she'd be better at pretending she was. She'd be better at connecting, even if the connections were fake.

She'd be less like Harley, essentially; and the overlooked-little-sister aspect is practically textbook; it's in June's wild overachieving, in her surprise when someone pays attention to her, in the risk-taking. It clicked the moment Harley saw the sister's supermodel-smile in the photo.

The second photo is of both girls with a man that looks a lot older than their mom, but she's pretty sure is their dad.

June looks a lot less happy, in that photo. Harley's trying not to care too much. She's failing.

"Where's June?" Harley asks, instead of saying _any_ of that, and Rick points his spatula at the window. 

"Took her coffee outside to smoke," he says, and then he's setting bacon on a plate and turning with another, stacked with pancakes, in his other hand. "Pretty sure she's gonna give up both, and I guess I gotta thank you for that. I've been tryin' to get her to quit smoking for a year, but she said the smell of it makes ya sick so she's cut down to just three cups, this morning, and says she isn't gonna buy another pack," he explains, setting both plates down on the table.

Harley had been surprised, on the first day, when June had gone out with a pack of cigarettes. She'd seen the ashtray but figured it was Rick's - the image had fit along with his overall 'I'm a tortured, badass soldier persona' - but had watched June chain her way through three through the window and quickly realized the entire thing probably belonged to her. It was surprising until it wasn't; if Harley'd been possessed by some inter-dimensional demon, she'd probably be a smoker, too.

As it is, it's never done much for her - but June's giving it up for _Harley_ \- and she stays standing useless in the doorway of the kitchen, unsure what to do with that.

"You want milk?" Rick asks, standing in front of the open fridge, and Harley looks up from the floor-tile she'd been staring at, shrugging. 

"Not if it's that weird almond stuff June has," and Rick smirks, shaking his head and pulling out a full jug.

"Nah, always got the real stuff when I'm in the house,"

"Just because _I_ have _morals_ ," and _Harley_ is the one who jumps, too wrapped up in the Flag-fucker as she was to hear June come inside.

"Give it up, you don't like milk; I've seen you put away an entire pizza after enough wine. It's nothing to do with _morals_ ," Rick shoots back, shaking the jug a little at her before he turns to fill two glasses. 

June shrugs, and Harley feels like the straight-man in a sitcom, the only person in a musical who doesn't understand why everyone is singing.

"You guys go ahead. I'm gonna wash up," she says, gesturing towards the table and then turning away.

She tugs off her shirt, and Harley doesn't know what to do with _that_ , either - she's changing because she smells like cigarettes, Harley's sure, but she's also not wearing anything underneath that shirt, and her back is a bare expanse of muscle Harley didn't expect.

She turns the corner, and Harley turns her head back, the black sketch image of the tattoo June apparently has on her left hip burned to the back of her eyelids.

"Floyd says hi," Rick says to her, hunched too-big over the suddenly small kitchen table and a ridiculous stack of pancakes already collected on his plate. 

"Don't call him that, it's creepy," Harley replies on automatic, taking a breath and taking in the place with a glass of water and glass of milk directly across from him. 

There's not a single part of her that has even the slightest inclination to break bread with Rick _fucking_ Flag - but she's here for a reason, and that reason is bacon, the _one_ good thing she might be able to get out of this already god-forsaken day.

She kind of wants the pancakes, too, but that brings the question of knife-and-fork back into play, and there's toast she can eat with her fingers, so she opts for that when she sits down instead - even if the pancakes have blueberries in them. 

It's uncomfortable; or, Harley's uncomfortable. She doesn't think Rick could give less of a fuck, scrolling through his phone and stuffing his face as he is, and _that's_ infuriating, the same as June's generally unperturbed disposition the day she'd brought her here. Harley's not supposed to be the one who's uncomfortable. _She's_ the one who makes people feel discomfited - she's the one who freaks people out.

This, this topsy-turvy-turn-around, was _not_ a part of the contract she signed, and she wants to throw a piece of bacon at Rick's stupid face, and maybe break his phone.

She doesn't; she waits until June sits down to a plate of two pancakes and a bowl of fruit, instead. And then; "So when're you guys gonna ask for the threesome?"

Rick, predictably, drops his phone, and it's as satisfying as Harley had hoped it would be. He chokes, pounding himself in the chest and reaching for his milk with quickly-tearing eyes, and Harley smirks, taking another bite of bacon while she watches him try to dislodge his own from his throat. 

June's reaction is much more interesting. She blushes. _Hard_ , and bright, and she doesn't look at Harley - unlike Rick, who is _glaring_ at her now he's not coughing anymore - just checks in with him, then looks at her plate. 

"That's not, at all, what this is about, Harley," she says, finally, quiet, and she's still blushing _bright_ \- which is a fascinating colour on her, and a fascinating concept, given the only other time Harley's seen her get flustered was when she accused her of looking at her ass.

And she's relived that, a couple (thousand) times; every moment in the shiny metal room across from the out-of-place girl that she's learned perhaps wasn't ever so out of place. 

"You sure? 'Cause this'd be a great set up for a sex slave," she offers, taking a small bite out of a piece of toast, and Rick coughs again, and June looks like she might catch fire from the inside. "What? Not into pregnant chicks? Got an issue with used goods? C'mon, June's _hot_ ," she focuses on Rick, glancing back at the other girl as she points a finger at her for momentary satisfaction at June's confused-blink reaction to the compliment - "There's no way she was a virgin when she got to you. Really, y _ou're_ hot too - oh, unless, are you two saving it for marriage? _Adorable_ ,"

" _Harley_ ," June cuts in, and she's still blushing bright, but there's less subdued-shock in her tone when she clamps a hand around Harley's wrist, floating in the air, finger still pointing aggressively between June's eyes.

June's palm is hot on her skin - too hot, almost, and Harley wants to wrench away; from her grip, from the sharp grab of dead-blue.

She doesn't.

"We don't want you here to use you," Rick says, and Harley doesn't look away from June, but tries to put the glare in her words.

" _You_ don't want me here at all,"

"And you don't want _me_ here - so I guess we got somethin' in common, now," she watches June exhale, lets her eyes flick along the creep of pink that's come up along her collarbones. "We don't like each other, agreed. Doesn't mean you're not safe here," 

Harley snorts, finally pulling herself away from June to look at him. She wants to point out that she's not safe, anywhere. That being here doesn't make her any _more_ safe - it just puts them, both of them, in danger. She wants to tell him what an idiot he is, what a complete moron, for letting June do this - for letting June come to visit her at all, for letting June draw the target so goddamn _artfully_ on her own fucking back.

She knows he didn't, though. He didn't let June do anything, because June didn't ask. Because June _doesn't_ ask, she just does. That's why Harley's here. She's pretty sure that's why Rick is here, too.

Maybe they have more than one thing in common.

"Whatever," she mutters, the pathetic shove-off bitter on her tongue. The fight goes out of her as quick as it had come in, replaced by the endless ebb of exhaustion she can't remember how to fight, and they're staring at her.

The theory of endless alternate universes is one Harley's always paid into. A world where she's the good guy; a world where Waller's the one strapped to a chair with a tube shoved down her nose - there's a world, somewhere along the edges, where Harleen married her highschool sweetheart and popped out three kids. There's one where June died, because Rick killed her; one where she died because Harley killed her, and one where she died because she killed herself. There's one where Harley's fucking her on this kitchen table, and one where Rick is fucking Harley.

And Harley would prefer every single one of those to this one, where she's sitting, pathetic, with both of them watching her like she's a wounded animal, mouth dry and trying to remember how to swallow the food in her mouth. She's not sure what it is; it tastes like sandpaper, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth, because she's _not_ going to run to vomit with both of them sitting here, already thinking about how she's broken. 

"Sip. Slow," Rick says, repositioning the glass of lemon water he'd set out for her directly in front of her - and she'd rather spit in his face, but she does it anyway. One sip. Two. Inhale. Exhale.

Then, she gets up from the table and goes back to the guest room. 

\---

"Do you prefer Harley, or Harleen, or Doctor, or -?" the woman - _girl_ \- cuts off on a question mark, sitting down on the armchair across from Harley. She looks like she's fourteen - short, shorter than Harley, with long dark curls and big, warm brown eyes.

She also doesn't look like any kind of professional. A professional hippie, maybe - she's wearing a tye-dye print dress that hits her ankles and a long beige sweater that falls to her knees; her hands are decked in bright coloured rings, and beads glint from her wrists.

Harley doesn't say anything to her, to this feel-good-feng-shui-hippie-bitch they've sent her, who looks like she just walked out of a highschool hallway. She just stares, lets her expression fold blank, sitting on June's deceptively comfortable well-worn couch.

The woman smiles.

"Okay," she starts, and shifts to reach down and pull off white lace flats. "My name is Dr. Kitchell Rhys Moore," she says, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged in the chair, which she's dwarfed by. She doesn't have any sort of notepad in her lap, which Harley thinks is odd - wonders if they're being recorded, if that means this morning was recorded. She's already found the camera in her room, in the corner above the door; she hasn't seen any in the rest of the house, but she also hasn't spent much  _time_ in the rest of the house. "You can call me Kitty. Everyone does. Even my son, particularly when he wants me to _really_ listen to why he should get to have cookies before dinner,"

She's giving away information like it's nothing - like it's not _dangerous_ , to tell Harley her full name, to make sure she can find her, to tell her there's collateral out there running around, just waiting for her. Harley exhales.

"What'd you do, start poppin' em out at ten?" She shoots, and the woman - _Kitty_ \- smiles, absurdly good-natured and calm.

"River was born at the end of my senior year of highschool," and Harley _snorts_ , loud and a little bit painful - because what a stupid _fucking_ name. 

Even if she maybe, sort of likes it.

"Gonna give me your social security number too?" She asks, and Kitty just smiles again, infuriatingly unperturbed.

"I know I look young, I didn't think, given your credentials, you'd comment on it," she says, nonchalant like a passing musing. Harley grits her teeth. 

"They aren't worried I'm gonna break you?" Harley asks instead of continuing the avenue - because she has a _point_ , but Harley likes to consider herself an exception; and there's some angry corner in her, based on the parallel Kitty's drawn, that they've sent this overqualified, you, naive _child_  in to see the psychopath. Again.

History is a circle.

"Is that how you feel? Broken?" Kitty asks instead of answering, and Harley rolls her eyes at the textbook-tactic and the fact that she let it happen.

"Right into it? They didn't teach you any kinda tact?"

"Somehow, I didn't think you'd have much of a mind for pleasantries," and this woman sits incredibly still; it's not the bolted way June does, where her whole body is deadlocked into its silence. It's still, but it's flowing; it's an awareness of her limbs, her feet folded under her and her arms resting on either side of the armchair.

"Where's your gun?" She asks, and the smile shifts just a _little_ bit, into something a little rueful, less calm - some sort of mirth. She leans forward, reaches into the briefcase resting against the base of the chair, and produces a standard 9mm glock, holding it up. 

"Pretty stupid not to have it on your body," 

"You didn't know where it was, I didn't see the danger," 

"I know where it is now. Why'd you tell me?" Harley watches her set the thing in her lap, the weapon aggressive and absurd amidst the tye-dye bright of her thighs and the toe ring she has on her foot.

"Because I'm not hiding anything from you. Do you want a full rundown of the security measures in place?" Kitty asks, calm and cool and _fuck her_ , and Harley presses her lips into a line, gives her the most expressionless stare she can. Kitty nods.

"There's an agent standing outside the front door with a pistol. There's one to the side of the window behind me, and three more in the SUV parked on the curb, with two machine guns and three pistols between them. There are no cameras in here, and we are not being recorded, but I have a panic button on this bracelet," she lifts her left hand, displays the black leather strap on her forearm. "You have a nanite explosive in your C1 vertebrae, which you knew - and I have access to this explosive on my phone, as does every agent on the premises. I have handcuffs in my bag, and I have a gun, which you also knew," she sets her hand back down, flexing her fingers against the arm of the chair. "However, I don't particularly like firearms. I prefer dealing with things hand-to-hand, and I have a knife strapped to my thigh,"

Harley just _stares_ at her. What the fuck is it with these people and breaching security for the sake of her - her _what_? Comfort? June, leaving the door unlocked - letting Harley handle real metal cutlery when they eat, leaving her constantly uncuffed. _This_ woman, giving her detail on everything meant to keep her in place, like she doesn't obviously know that _knowing_ those things gives Harley the upper hand.

They couldn't stop her before she hurt the girl; it's not ego, it's fact. Harley knows it, and Waller knows it, so Kitty must know it too.

"Why do you trust me?" She asks, staring at the gun sitting in the girl's lap.

"Because I think if you wanted to die, you would have done it properly the first time," She says, the light tone she'd carried before gone in the statement - but the words aren't harsh, just factual. Harley digs her nails into her palms.

"Dunno what you're talking about,"

"You know how to kill people, Harley. You've done it before - let's get that out of the way first. You've murdered people. I know it, and you know it, and if you'd _really_ wanted to die, you would have slit your throat," and her ears are pounding; Harley can hear her heart beating its way into her mouth, viscous and metallic with the weight of blood. "I don't think you wanted to die, I think you wanted out. So I don't think you're broken, Harley. I think you want to change," 

"You don't know a goddamn thing about me," Harley cuts, feeling the precise contact of her tongue to her teeth, her lips, with absurd clarity; the expulsion of air on every syllable, pointed and sharp. 

"We both know that's not true," Kitty leans forward again, back into the briefcase, and this time comes up with a beige file folder with Harley's latest mugshot paperclipped to the front of it. "This will be considerably more effective if we agree now not to lie to each other," she says, and it should be condescending, but it's _not_ , which is really just that much _more_ annoying - and Harley doesn't agree with her treatment plan, with the woman _antagonizing_ her, digging in deep right out of the gate.

Then again, Harley's treatment plan had been based on trust built over bonding, and look where she is now. 

"I'm not here to be your friend," Kitty says, setting the file down along with the gun. "You know that. I know you know how this works. So let's skip over the part where you tell me how much you don't need this, and don't want this, because we both know it doesn't matter if you think you do or not."

They sit, staring at each other in silent stand off - at least, that's how _Harley_ feels; there's a really ticked off part of her that knows Kitty isn't bothered at all, knows it's only her that's skin-on-fire and on the edge. 

"Crazy people don't know they're crazy," Harley breathes, and the girl's head tilts a little.

"Don't they?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm generally someone who hates OCs, but I couldn't figure out a character to work in as Harley's shrink, soooo... I hope y'all like Kitty!
> 
> Feedback welcome and wanted, as always. Seriously, I love hearing from you guys, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Xx.


	12. Chapter 12

June hasn't slept in... a while.

 _A while_.

It's hard to gauge, because she wasn't really sleeping _before_ Harley moved in, before they found Harley, before Harley disappeared, before June stopped going to Belle Reve, before she started going, before Midway City, before Rick... _before_. June can tick off all the 'befores' standing like sticks in the stand with ease, with her eyes closed, but she can't really point out the after, yet. It doesn't feel like there's been one; there's just morning, after night, after morning, after -

Point being, she's not really all that _surprised_ when she jerks awake in the passenger seat of Rick's truck, blinking through the sudden-bright of the sunlight coming through the windshield and half-turning to look in the backseat of the cab. Rick's got the door kitty-corner to her open, loading plastic bags from a grocery cart in, and shoots her a warm, easy grin when he sees her looking.

"Hey, sleepyhead,"

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Baby, I love you," he starts, bringing an arm up to prop against the top of the doorframe and lean, "But you're startin' to look like the walkin' dead. You passed out as soon as we turned off our street, figured you needed the sleep."

June presses her lips together, turning back in her seat when Rick closes the door and pulling down the sun visor to peer at herself in the little mirror, and he's right. She'd done her best before they left to at least _try_ and cover up the bruise-purple ringing her eyes - but there wasn't much to be done for how pale she was, the beginnings of the gaunt cut her face. "Shit," she mutters, pinching her cheeks to try and bring some colour back into them and flipping the visor back up.

The driver's side door opens, and Rick pulls himself into the truck, head _just about_ brushing the ceiling as he settles and tugs his seatbelt across his chest. "I'm a better grocery shopper than you anyway, darlin'. You gotta keep something besides three bottles of Worcestershire and Pedialyte in the fridge."

June snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. "Debatable,"

"Anyhow, I'm makin' pizza for dinner," he gives, offering another grin as he puts the car in reverse. "Everyone likes pizza," he adds, propping his elbow against the center console to lean over it. "And, we're getting Starbucks."

Despite herself, June laughs, rolling her eyes and pressing her lips light against his. "Addict," she accuses, and he shrugs, leaning back in his seat and pulling out of the spot.

"Ya heard from Quinn's doc yet?" He asks, and June shifts to tug her phone from her pocket, thumb sliding to unlock it.

"They'll be done in the next half hour," June offers, and Rick makes a noise of acknowledgment. June sighs, locking the phone and letting her head fall back against the seat again.

The psychiatrist had been an unassuming woman; shorter than June herself, and had looked like she was probably nice, which had struck June as _wrong_.

Much as Harley deserved kindness, June didn't think it was going to be the way to make any progress - but no one was going to ask _her_ , so _whatever_.

"What d'you think that was about, this morning?" Rick asks, thumbs tapping in idle catch of the bass from the radio, and June sits up a little more, shaking her head.

"Dunno," Lie. Rick had referred to it as an _altercation_ when they'd talked to the psychiatrist before they left Harley with her, earlier - the woman had asked if it was violent and June had been annoyed, because it hadn't _been_ an altercation. An aggravation, sure; a provocation. Harley had been looking for a button to push and she found it - and June grits her teeth, now, still irritated with herself for not reacting better. _Especially_ in front of Rick, who, between the two of them, has always been the blushing school girl. _Not_ June. If he hadn't been so busy trying not to die on his breakfast, all her pink-cheeked stammering would have been a dead giveaway.

"Ya think that was a real question? Or was she fucking with us?" He pushes, and June shakes her head again.

"Fucking with us," she gives, and knows she's right. What pisses her off is the part of her that wishes Harley _wasn't_ kidding. She's horrified with herself. She's horrified with the fact that Harley poking buttons isn't the first time June's thought about her like that; about kissing her, about touching her. She's tried _not_ to - tried to shove it away in a box and bury it in the back of her brain, under all the other fucked up shit that floats around in her head.

She prefers the impulses to tear into people's throats over the impulse to tear Harley's clothes - the former seems somehow less tangible; a leftover from the bitch clenching dead fingers around her spinal cord; wanting Harley is all on June. And it's _wrong_.

It's wrong. Not just because she's with Rick - which she is, but because she's supposed to be looking after Harley. Protecting her. The fact that she's thinking about her naked makes her almost as bad as the guards.

"S'pose we ought to expect more of it, then?" Rick asks, and June lets out a breath, nodding.

"Probably," they pull into the drive-thru, and she brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Don't rise to it. There's no way to win with her," Rick hums, nodding as fingers press to roll his window down.

He's being surprisingly... _relaxed_ , about the whole thing. June had been traitorously relieved when Waller had called him the morning June was supposed to pick Harley up. It wasn't a _secret_ that Rick and Harley didn't like each other - Harley was quick to the trigger, and depending on which version of Rick you were dealing with, he could be too. June knew that the Colonel-alter-ego of her fiancée was the prime example; _and_ Harley's only interaction with Rick.

June had been shocked when he'd come home last night, thoroughly worn and smelling like gunpowder, looking to make peace.

 _"She probably hasn't slept in weeks,"_ he'd said, when June had told him Harley had been in bed for the last three days, stripping free of gunpowder-and-blood stained clothing in their bedroom.

_"I know,"_

_"How'd it go? Gettin' her here and shit; she give you any trouble?"_

June had thought of the hospital bathroom, of Harley naked; of doing everything she _could_ to keep her eyes up and on the girl's face - instead of looking at the bruising, at the bandaging and scars, at the black-mark of the tattoos on too-white skin. She'd thought of brushing her fingers against the girl's shoulder blades when she'd clasped her bra - of the way Harley had snapped at her in the car over the pregnancy book; of the way Harley had looked at her in the bedroom on the first day, anger and hate and something _else_ \- and she'd shaken her head.

_"No. It was easy."_

June's not sure when lying became so automatic.

She's also not sure of when she falls asleep again, only that she drifts, and then they're pulling onto their street and Rick's doing bad car-dancing to whatever top-forty is humming quietly through the stereo, one hand on the wheel and the other curled around a comically small, strawberry-pink Frappuccino.

Richard Rogers Flag. Man of contradictions.

"Got ya decaf," he tells her without looking over, and June makes a noncommittal noise.

"What's the point of decaf coffee?" She mutters, unable to keep the grumble from her voice, and Rick snorts, smirking.

"I'm thinkin' maybe ya should do one at a time, y'know. Cigarettes, then coffee. Not all at once," he gives, and June huffs, tugging the lid-from the to go cup and pressing the white cardboard rim to her mouth.

"Point taken," she's only skipped one smoke break today, lunch, and she can already _feel_ the irritation sitting in the base of her jaw, curling at the corners of her tongue. Rick's a good man, but she knows she's already stretching him thin with Harley in the house - subjecting him to that _plus_ her on nicotine and caffeine withdrawal, all at once, would just be _cruel_. Not to mention, probably a recipe for disaster with Harley exacerbated by... well, _Harley_ , and hormones.

When they get inside - lugging all the groceries at once, because Rick considers single-trips a point of personal pride - the psychiatrist is already gone, and the lights in the living room are out. June's unloading bags into the fridge, trying to decide if it's a good or bad idea to go check on Harley in her room while Rick goes to turn on the tv, when he calls for her, voice hushed in a stage-whisper.

She goes out to the living room to find him holding the television remote and looking at the couch, and follows his eyes to make out the bright white of Harley's hair under a mass of blankets.

"Oh," June gives, soft and involuntary. Her eyes adjust to the setting-sun dark of the room and she can see her better - and the girl isn't curled as tightly as June had thought. It's a little odd, actually, June thinks, that Harley's fallen asleep so... _exposed_. She's been walking rigid like a wind-up toy since the moment she stepped foot in the house, and every time she's left her room her eyes have been doing that flicking thing June had learned from visit after visit to her cage as something like a flight instinct. That, combined with what happened this morning - it's _weird_ , that Harley's openly unconscious on their couch, when she's spent the last few days twitching like a grenade with the pin half-pulled.

What the hell did that doctor _do_?

"Hard to see _that_ as much of a threat," Rick gives under his breath, bending forward to set the remote on the coffee table, and June just nods. His lips press to her hair, and he disappears back into the kitchen and the open fridge, leaving June looking at Harley.

Staring at Harley.

It's fucking _creepy_ , probably - but the girl is curled in on herself with one arm tucked under her head, lips just barely parted, and in the oddly domestic normality of a tshirt and no makeup, Harley's tattoos look that much more grotesque.

The heart under her eye isn't too awful; in June's personal opinion, it could actually be kind of cute - but the stick-n-poke lettering along the base of her jaw is cartoonish and disturbing. Even more so is the scattering of black ink that peeks out from the V of her shirt; the proclamation of 'Daddy's Little Monster,' - the one tattoo June had been, excruciatingly, unable _not_ to stare at in the hospital - half-visible and absurd in curling letters.

June's struck by the sudden urge to scrub it off; the idea that Harley belongs to anyone, let alone _him_ \- the title of 'monster', as though there's nothing human left in her. She grits her teeth, grinding against the yellow-flash sparks of anger in the corner of her jaw, and runs her eyes up, away from the stain, back to Harley's face.

It’s not peaceful, even asleep. Some of the lines in her forehead have smoothed but there’s a downturn to the edges of her mouth and the soft purple of her eyelids flicker. She’s restless, restless as she is when she’s awake, and June’s completely enraptured by it.

Enraptured, creepy, and so _incredibly_ screwed.

"June?"

Rick stage-whispers for her again, and June turns, finds him silhouetted in the kitchen archway and holding up a bottle of wine, head tilted like a question.

June glances back at Harley, takes a breath, and nods.

"Never thought I'd be able to say I had Harley Quinn crashin' on my couch," he says, twisting the screw of the bottle opener into the cork. June doesn't give anything back, pulling stemless wine glasses from the cupboard. "You okay?"

"Yeah -" she breaks off, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter to look out into the still-dark living room. The back of the couch is towards her, and she drags her teeth across her lip, shaking her head. "I just - she's been locked in her room for days. What did the psychiatrist say to her?" She voices, and Rick shrugs, pressing a glass into her hands.

"Whatever it was, seems like it worked," he bends, pulling the cutting board from its cupboard and setting it out on the counter. "Can you chop veggies?"

Rick has a thing, about making meals from scratch - after meeting his mother, after Easter dinner in the Spring at his mother's house, June _gets_ where it comes from. He likes cooking; he likes the whole event of it, a glass of wine or a cup of tea or whatever, music, shimmying himself around the kitchen and only half-following the recipe. He _bakes_ , too. The first weekend she'd spent at his place, she'd woken up to find him making pancakes on the stove, with banana bread already in the oven.

"Don't get the dough on the ceiling this time," June gives, mostly-kidding as she picks up the pairing knife, and Rick makes a noise of overdone-offense.

"That was _one_ time!"

 

They're quiet, for a little bit. Well, relatively - Rick _does_ put some music on, low with a glance to the living room, and June makes her way through half the rainbow-collection of the produce section on the counter before Rick butts in next to her. One hand falls, warm, to the small of her back and the other catches up red pepper in his fingers, tossing it in his mouth. 

"They haven't really been able to run any sorta tests on the kid yet, have they?" He asks, and June stutters where she's cutting up a mushroom, missing completely and coming down hard on the board.

"What?"

"The kid. Harley's kid. It's too early for them to really check anything out, right? Can't even see what gender it is, let alone an amniocentesis, or something like that. See if it's okay. It doesn't really have the best genetic odds, y'know?" June bristles. She doesn't know _why_ she bristles - he's expressing real, genuine concern; he's expressing the same concern she's gone over herself, but her teeth still grit in the back of her jaw.

"There's nothing wrong with her. Harley's genetically fully functional. She doesn't have any deficits or disorders or -" a hand comes over hers, the one holding the knife, thumb pressing into the base of her palm so she releases it and spreading her fingers flat.

"June," Rick's voice is low, and warm, and the hand on her back slides up to press fingers into the tension-taut junction of her shoulder. "Ya don't gotta leap to her defense, all the time. I'm just sayin', she's been through a lot. Body's been through a lot. And they got her family history, but they don't got his," both his hands come up, flatting against her neck, light where fingers catch her jaw to tilt her head up and make her look at him. "I don't wanna see this go sideways on her anymore than you do."

June presses her lips together, resisting the childish urge to shake her head, because he has _no idea_. It - hurts, almost, to think about Harley hurting. To think about anything going wrong; to think about the quiet, angry way she'd dismissed June's questions about her last pregnancy - to think about the alien sort of way her hands have been hovering around her own body, like she doesn't know what to do with it. June _feels_ it, like it's her own pain - but she can't fucking _tell_ anyone that, of course. They're all already watching her like they're waiting for her to lose it at any moment, like her concern about Harley is proof of her imminent breakdown.

Rick's eyes are wide and warm as he looks at her, though; genuine, and sincere. He's tired; she can see that much, but he's not judging her - and he _means_ it.

It occurs to her, suddenly, that he'll be a good dad. She's always known that, of course - his family is _huge_ and he's always been the favourite Uncle - but the image hasn't ever been quite as abruptly _clear_ as it is, suddenly; he'll be a good dad. He's the kind of guy that'll cry and jump around like an idiot when he finds out he's going to be one; he'll hover, and be annoying, and worry all the time, and cry again at all the ultrasounds and any baby will be totally dwarfed in his hands, but he'll treat it like glass. He'll _want_ to stay up nights, and get up early, and watch the Lion King on repeat for weeks on end and go to dance recitals and baseball games and whatever else - he'll be a _good_ fucking dad, and June takes a breath, bringing her hands up to curl fingers over his wrists and try to get a grip.

"They did sonograms everyday, in the hospital -" she breaks off, dropping one hand to pull her phone out of her pocket and step out of his grip. She pulls up her photos, swiping through a couple until she finds the one she'd taken at the last ultrasound she'd been present for. "Here. They said they couldn't find any abnormalities, anything _wrong_ \- they said it seemed like it was healthier than Harley was, even with the trauma."

Rick's half smiling, looking at the photo, and June knows he's definitely got a better understanding of what's what in the image than she does - she can make out basic shape, she knows what she's looking at, but she feels disconnected from it. She'd taken the photo hoping Harley might want to see it - it isn't something June understands, the foreign-ness of hosting a human being, an undeniable, unavoidable association with the Joker - but she'd hoped Harley might get more comfortable, be more interested, once they weren't in the hospital anymore.

As it is, June's the one who's spent the most time looking at it. She's not really a sentimental person, though - can't get the medical terminology out of her head, _foetus_ and _cells_ and _development_ \- and it's _weird_. Not wrong, exactly; it's less difficult for her to marry the concept of _mother_ and _Harley_ than she thinks it would be to connect it to herself, really - but it's given everything else this sort of added tension. She already wanted to protect Harley, and she _wants_ Harley, but this - well, it makes the inclination to build a wall around her that much more demanding; and it _confuses_ the rest of it. It's already so, so, _so_ incredibly wrong - but it's even more fucked up now, when she thinks about it too hard.

"Think it's a boy or a girl?" Rick asks, still looking at the photo, and before June can answer - _fuck me if I know_ \- they're interrupted.

"Fuck you,"

Harley's standing in the kitchen archway, in sweatpants and messy, sleepy hair, and her tshirt tugged not-quite-down her stomach with her arms at her sides, fingers curled tight in fists.

"Harley -" June sidesteps Rick, and the girl takes a step back, bringing one hand up to point at her.

"No," she jerks at her elbow, violent, and June watches the white of her teeth dig into her lip as her mouth catches the next consonant - " _Fuck_. You."

And she's gone, and June's head is pounding like she's run a mile, staring at the empty space. They hear the hydraulics of Harley's door shut, loud and final, and then all June can hear is her own breathing echoing in the kitchen over the suddenly infuriating buzz of Alt Rock coming from the speaker.

She half-turns to look back at Rick, who's still holding her phone up, but is looking at the empty space, too; his eyebrows are at his hairline, eyes a little wide, and they drop to look at June.

"Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost totally free of school so updates should get more regular asap! As always, feedback welcome - totally encouraged, actually. Nothing is more motivating than hearing from y'all. Xx.


	13. you can't handle you

June paces.

She follows Harley, first - goes to her door, goes to knock and thinks better of it, dropping her hand to pace the hallway instead. Back, forth, back, forth - she repeats the conversation with Rick in her head with each turn of her foot; his comment about genetics, about traumas, about _not wanting it to go sideways_. None of it is - _bad_ , exactly, but it's not good either, and given it's Harley... 

Well, June's not surprised she's pissed. She's just hoping it's _just_ pissed, just angry. She can handle Harley being angry at her; Harley's kind of _always_ angry at her. But she also doesn't know what went on with the psychiatrist - she doesn't know what state Harley was in in the first place, she's barely known where her head's been for the last three days. 

Living together, June's never felt more disconnected from her.

At least in Belle Reve she was honest - or, June thought she was. Hoped she was. She's not stupid; she _knows_ Harley's a master manipulator, a compulsive liar - but she'd been locked in a cage. She hadn't had anything to lose by letting June in, a little bit. On some level, June had felt like she _knew_ her. 

And in the hospital - well, in the hospital, she'd still kind of got it. Maybe it was the blood loss; maybe it was something about being shackled to the bed - Harley had been angry, sure; she'd been fucking _furious_ , but at least she'd been upfront about it. Laid it out on the table. June had been walled out, and she knew that; she'd hurt Harley's feelings by disappearing - but she was still seeing something real, there.

But it's been like living with a ghost. A ghost that won't look her in the eye anymore.

"Fuck," June mutters, gritting her teeth and stopping dead in the hallway. "Fuck, _fuck_ ," she wants to do something, _anything_ , to fix it; to fix the way Harley's been looking at her, like _she's_ the enemy, like she's the danger - but she doesn't even know what she did in the first place.

So she paces.

She paces, and she stops, and she almost knocks on the door and then she _doesn't_ , and she eats because Rick makes her and then she paces in the kitchen - and it's infuriating, and _stupid_ , and he watches her go back and forth with something between confusion and guilt in the turn of his mouth. Which bothers her.

"Don't look at me like that,"

"She's - volatile, June,"

"Rick -" she breaks off, turning towards him, flash-bangs setting off under her jaw. She wants to hit him. Hard. She wants to hit _anything_. She wants collision, and contact, she wants to feel something break, and it's a burn in the back of her throat like bile, it's ice in her chest and creeping the length of her spine.

It's _her_. The her that isn't June, except when it is.

"Don't. Just, don't, okay?" June manages through locked teeth, and Rick puts his hands up like defense, shaking his head before they fall back to his knees. He presses up, standing.

"Don't stay up too late," he gives, comes close enough to curve his hand around the back of her head, to press his lips to her forehead, and then leaves. She waits, listens for the hydraulics of the door - wonders when _that_ became a normality; a comfort - and goes back to stand in front of Harley's room.

She listens, waiting for the sounds of Rick going to bed - waits a little longer.

Then, she punches her key into Harley's bedroom door.

It's a violation of privacy, probably; definitely. Harley's supposed to feel at _home_ , here - or as close to it as she can. It's not fair for June to try and _force_ Harley to talk to her, but -

"Get out."

"No."

Too late.

"Get the _fuck_ out,"

Harley's bedroom is dark; there's the gleam of artificial yellow drifting across the floor from the streetlight outside, and shadows are thrown into relief by the gleam of a half-full moon, but it's dark. Harley's sitting in the chair in the corner, and June leaves the door open, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to face her.

"We weren't judging you, or anything -"

"Shut the fuck up." It's sharp, abrupt, and June inhales, shaky and slow.

"Harley -"

"I don't care. I don't care what you were doing. I don't care what you were talking about. I don't care if you think I'm doomed, this is doomed - if everything is fucked, if this _ridiculous_ set up is some sort of charity-case, if you're trying to get yourself some _good karma_. I don't care," Harley stands, crosses the room as she speaks - hard, and sharp, and June _feels_ it, holds her breath, keeps her arms clenched to her chest as Harley glares at her, less than a foot away in the dark.

She should be afraid. She _knows_ that she should be afraid - this is _frightening_ ; she's standing alone in the dark with a known murderer and she _should be afraid_.

" _I_ care," she manages - because her heart is in her mouth, thick and heavy and tasting like iron, and there's blood pounding in her ears, but she's _not_ afraid. Harley doesn't scare her. She never has. 

Which is why she's even less prepared than she should be for what happens next.

June is shoved back against the wall, and Harley catches her there, forearm pressing hard into June's collarbone. Her other hand falls to June's stomach, flat against her abdomen so she can't move, can't get any leverage to get out of Harley's grip. June's trapped, and this would be the moment to shout - for Rick, for anyone, because Harley knows what she's doing; they're out of view of the camera and there aren't any guards at the windows unless Harley's in therapy.

They're alone. No one can see them. June's trapped. June should scream.

She doesn't.

" _Stop_ ," Harley hisses, and June forces herself to keep her hands down at her sides, instead of trying to push Harley's arm away. She's not pressing into her windpipe, she's just holding her there, the bandaging on her wrist soft against her skin. June doesn't need to resist. 

"I don't want to," she breathes, and Harley's brow knits, bright eyes sharp and _wrong_ in the dark.

"Why do you care so much? What's the point? What's the point of any of this? For - for a baby that's probably not even gonna make it to _being_ a baby? Even if it does - it'll be what, a test subject? Waller's fuckin' pet project?" Harley's arm shoves harder against June's collar, a quick shot of pressure, like she wants to shake her. "Any of that better than just gettin' rid of it? Gettin' rid of both of us? I _tried_ that. I _wanted_ that - why'd they stop me? Why'd they save me?" She shoves again, and June can't help the panicked inhale that rushes through her throat, curls a hand around Harley's elbow to keep her airway free. "There's no _point_ ,"

The hand at June's stomach bunches in her shirt, turning fabric tight in a fist, and June feels the individual indents of knuckles digging into the jut of her hip. "A Narcissistic Psychopath with an antisocial fuckin' Personality Disorder and symptoms of IED for a _father_ \- and then - _me_ -" Harley breaks off, dragging her fist up to dig her knuckles into the center of June's chest, her shirt coming up with it.

June's grip on Harley's elbow tightens, nails digging into her skin, and she tries another rush of breath. "Dissociative. Obsessive," June's free hand comes up, catching against Harley's wrist on the other side of her neck. " _Violent_."

June closes her eyes. She inhales; she _can_ inhale, much as it feels like she can't - she can get enough air in, even if it's _all_ Harley, her shampoo, her body wash - all of which June bought for her, but is already completely and entirely _her_. She forces her fingers to relax, drops her hands, and lets her eyes open again - finds Harley's boring into them, glinting and half-present.

"I'm not afraid of you," June manages; it's hushed, but she _means_ it, and does her best to relax back against the wall, in Harley's grip.

"Why is that photo on your phone?" She snaps back, stepping so her fist is caught between her torso and June's.

"Because," June tries to breathe in again, holding Harley's eyes. "- I care about you," she readjusts - tries; she can't quite bring her head off the wall with the way she's being held, but moves so it isn't quite the same knife-to-the-throat position. Harley's just _holding_ her, not suffocating her, not even trying to. June brings her hand back up to Harley's arm, fingers resting against her bicep and dragging her thumb over Harley's skin. "You're not a charity case. You're -"

Harley's arm shifts, just a little higher, just a little more pressure, like a dare. June runs her hand up, tightens her grip on the other's arm, ignoring the urge to resist and try and push Harley away. "You're my _friend_."

Harley inhales; once, short and sharp, and the knuckles in the center of June's chest move. The hand turns, pressing flat along the line of her torso, fingers following securely along the curve of her ribcage as the pressure at her collar loosens.

June is abruptly aware of how cold Harley's hand is, almost inhuman where it presses just under her heart.

The rest of her isn't as cold; she's moved in with the readjustment of her hand, and June can feel that her torso isn't _warm_ , but she's not quite as disturbingly icy.

This is the most contact they've ever made - and it's _aggressive_ , but it's not; and June takes her chances, running her hand higher, up to Harley's shoulder, up to brush her fingertips against the base of her jaw, drifting along the proclamation etched there.

Harley's mouth clenches; June sees as much feels her swallow, and drifts her fingers along the girl's neck. She can feel how hard Harley's breathing - like she's been running, and June figures she kind of _has_ been. She's been running for years.

"We're not friends," she says, and her eyes widen, sky-bright and electric in the dark, when June turns her hand to rest her fingers to the back of Harley's neck. Her fingertips press hard where they sit on June's ribs, and it would be easy, it would be _so_ easy - but June doesn't want Harley to run, anymore.

"It's okay, Harley," she manages, quiet, and the breath the girl takes is a gasp, like a hit. Her body relaxes; the tension under June's fingers drifts, dissipates, and some of the sick-bright in Harley's eyes goes along with it.

June waits; waits for the panic lights to signal off in her own head when the girl's nose brushes hers and their foreheads touch; waits while her arm moves from June's collar, to be replaced by Harley's hand around her neck, palm pressed flat against June's throat. Waits for Harley to make a decision.

She could kiss her, or she could kill her.

All at once, Harley's gone, and June takes a deep breath, lets her head drop back against the wall. She keeps her eyes closed, brings her own hand up to cover her throat, then drift it down, tugging her shirt back over her body.

When she opens her eyes, Harley is standing a few feet away from her, arms crossed over chest. She looks at her, for a moment - watches Harley's eyes touch from toe to top, then meet June's again, and her mouth curves into a smug sort of smirk.

"Go see your Soldier Boy," she gives, and it isn't _harsh_ , it isn't a _shot_ \- it's barely even an order. June could stay, she's sure.

But she won't. Rick's in the other room. The absence of Harley's hands is like a hurt. June can see the staining of bruises still on Harley's neck in the light from the hall. 

So she won't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, queries? Xx.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

"Why did you tell me your name? Your _kid's_ name?" 

In the two weeks Harley's been in June's house, she's seen the doctor three times. Their second visit was - quiet. They talked about the weather; the cold, wet fall that October was shaping up to be. About Harley's bedroom - she'd admitted that the new privacy of her own bathroom was uncomfortable more often than not, and Kitty had nodded, said something about Harley always looking over her shoulder. Hyper-vigilance; nothing new. 

Now, Dr. Moore smiles at Harley's question, an interruption of their conversation about favourite Halloween candy, like she's been given a gift.

"Not fair of me to ask for yours without giving mine," she says and Harley rolls her eyes.

"What about your kid?"

"What _about_ my kid?" 

"Was it a bonding tactic? Trying to identify yourself as a mother because I'm knocked up? Because, y'know, given my history, that's a pretty dumb thought process. Or were you trying to make it harder for me to hurt you? Also pretty stupid. I don't care if you have people that love you."

Kitty's lips press together - badly hiding a smile, and Harley's hands tighten to fists in her lap.

She's starting to understand why they assigned Kitty to her. The woman is as under-your-skin as a pipe bomb in a pink-print backpack.

"I told you about River so when we got to talking about your pregnancy, you'd know I had some first-hand experience," she explains, bowling over before Harley can respond - "And if you're up for a debate, I think you _do_ care. I think you care a lot, actually, because I think seeing people be loved makes you really jealous," she says, and Harley feels her nails bite into her palms, ridging discomfort sharp and straight along her spine with the accusation.

"You think I'm jealous of your teenage pregnancy?" She grinds out, and Kitty, dressed today in a yellow-on-brown print bell-sleeved dress, shrugs.

"I think you're jealous of the unconditional love I get to go home to. That anyone gets to go home to. I think that's why you hate Colonel Flag so much," and Harley inhales, closing her eyes and leaning back into the couch.

Stupid. She shouldn't have asked the damn question in the first place. She couldn't fucking _help_ herself, she's been losing her mind in silence - she's been in self-imposed lock down for a fucking week. June's barely been home, but Flag has been, and - Harley feels guilty, or something like it. Embarrassed. Angry that she's either of those things. She's pretty sure June is avoiding her and she can't even really be angry with her for it, because it's - it's fucking _fair_.

Harley'd basically assaulted her.

Harley'd almost _kissed_ her. 

Which was - fucked up. It was fucked up.

Harley's fucked up about it.

Harley's _fucked up_. 

"Reese's Peanutbutter cups," she supplies, eyes and fists still shut tight.

She _hates_ this. Feeling weak. Exisitng at the mercy of other people. It's infuriating and it's constant and it's endless - and she's trapped in her own body, confined by every emotion blurring itself in her bloodstream. 

"How do you feel about living with Ms. Moone and Colonel Flag, Ms. Quinn?" Kitty asks, and Harley exhales through her nose, feeling the twitch of a rueful smirk in the corner of her mouth. 

"What have they told you?" She asks, opening her eyes. Kitty's fingers tap the padded arm of the chair. 

"That you asked them for a threesome," she says, and Harley snorts despite herself, clamping a hand over her mouth to bite back a laugh. 

Kitty smiles, wide and genuine.

"It's like - " Harley lets her hand fall from her mouth, curling her fingers around her other wrist and letting her eyes slip from Kitty's face to look out the window. She considers, for a moment; the guard is undoubtedly standing just out of sight, probably all in black, gun strapped to their waist. She doesn't want to talk about this with Kitty. She doesn't want to talk about anything with anyone. 

But - it seems like June hasn't said anything, to anyone. Which, actually kind of freaks Harley out - but she's trapped here, regardless, here or Belle Reve or wherever they decide to ship her next. She got nothing to gain, but she's got even less to lose.

"It's like she's looking for redemption, or some shit. Like, why the fuck would you offer up your fucking house as a jail?" Harley offers, and it feels awful, but it also feels kind of good - asking the question somewhere besides her own head. 

Moore nods.

"You feel like you're being used."

Harley rolls her eyes.

" _Obviously_ I'm being used. That's not even a question. This is Waller's pet project."

"It is," Dr. Moore confirms, "It's _Waller's_. Waller is using you. She's manipulating you. She manipulates everything."

Harley raises an eyebrow.

"Seems counterproductive to paint your boss as the bad guy."

"Waller isn't my boss," Dr. Moore says, smiling and shaking her head, "And anyone can be the bad guy, depending on your shade of grey."

"Deep. We about to start talking Divine Command Theory?"

"Do you think Rick and June are using you?" Dr. Moore asks, bypassing the comment - as she's, irritatingly, wont to do - and Harley sighs, filing away the chain-of-command information away for later. That Waller isn't at the top of the hierarchy isn't a surprise, but that the Infamous Harley Quinn's shrink is not her subordinate, is. 

"I _think_ they need a... motive," Harley gives, flatting her hands on her thighs and looking down at them - the spread of white skin on pink jeans.

It makes sense, that June had stuck to styles _she_ knew when shopping for Harley - but the effort she'd apparently put into a colour scheme outside of her own comfort zone sits some kind of suffocatingly-warm in Harley's throat. 

"Motive being a reason."

"That _is_ the definition." 

"Motive makes it sound like a crime." 

"Maybe it is."

"Do _you_ want to start talking Divine Command Theory?"

There's a breath; a beat. A stalemate. Harley stares at the doctor, neutral, and Dr. Moore stares back.

"Can you really not think of a reason June and Rick might want you here that isn't - nefarious?" Dr. Moore asks, and Harley crosses her arms over her chest, pressing back into the couch. "Doesn't Rick owe you his _life_?"

"Colonel Flag doesn't seem like the sort of man to feel indebted to a sociopath," Harley bites out, and feels the trap shut the second the last word leaves her mouth; Kitty's eyebrows go up, her smile drops, and Harley's opened the damned _door_. 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck -_

"Sociopath? Is that the diagnosis you've given yourself?"

"Can't really diagnose myself with anything, my medical license has been revoked."

"- before which you were an accomplished Psychiatrist. Undoubtedly, you have a textbook understanding of sociopathy - a lack of empathy, inability to form emotional relationships... the irresponsibility, the impulsivity, the _manipulation_ \- those I agree with, and would like to come back to, because I'd like us to talk about if those are traits you've had since day one, or behaviours you learned. But, incapable of emotion, _unfeeling_ \- is that how you see yourself?"

Harley grits her teeth - almost painful in how hard she bites down, jaw locked. She feels like a child caught out; it's humiliating, and infuriating, and the irritation locks up in her shoulders.

"Are you going to try and tell me you think I'm a good person?" She asks, slow, counting to ten in the tap of her tongue on teeth.

"No." Dr. Moore says, leaning back in her chair. It's June's chair, really. Harley'd come out of her room three days ago to find June buried in it, hidden under highlighters and books 

Harley hadn't stared. She hadn't needed to. Every image she's met of June has immediately seared itself onto the back of her eyelids.

Like the picture of her pressed into the wall, her head tilted up; throat exposed pale in the leaking glow of the streetlight. Her eyes had been blown black; afraid, probably, whatever she said - nervous system pumping adrenalin to her extremities, thrumming her pulse at a breakneck pound, flicking between fight and flight. She'd practically been panting, the poke-press of her collarbone fast and sharp into Harley's forearm. She'd been _warm_ \- bleeding heat into Harley's hand where she held her, fingers flat in the ridges of June's ribs. 

For the first time in a long time, Harley had gotten herself off. Tucked in the corner chair, she'd ridden it out on her hand in the dark; playing the picture over and over and over again, the press of June's hand to the back of her neck, the brush of her fingertips over Harley's jaw. She didn't know _what_ kind of de-escalation tactic it was supposed to be, but almost every furious beat of Harley's heart had pounded itself into a staccato back-and-forth of _kiss her_ and _fuck me_.

Every time Harley's seen June since it's been a bleed of heat up the back of her neck, in her hips - it's too many pictures and not enough time and nothing she can do about it. It's - _wrong_ ; it's wrong, because she's J's. She's J's girl. Harley has always _been_ J's girl; and he'd hate her for it, wanting someone else for no reason other than _want_ , when there's nothing to be gained in it for him. 

She belongs to him.

"What I do or don't think is irrelevant. What matters is what _you_ think about it," Dr. Moore tells her, and Harley takes a breath to keep from scoffing.

"That's the lamest, quackiest thing you've said so far, Kitchell," she informs the woman, and Dr. Moore smiles.

"Noted, Ms. Quinn," she tells Harley, takes a breath of her own as she strecthes her arms out with her hands against her knees, fingers spanning apart in the air. She's got a tattoo, creeping up from her wrist, into her palm. "But the point still stands. What do you think? How would you diagnose yourself? Don't tell me you've never thought about it." 

Disassociative. Obsessive. _Violent_. Harley had forced the words into June's chest like a threat and felt nothing but _wrong_ in the widening of June's eyes. There was no satisfaction in response to the woman's fear - there wasn't any _power_ in it.

If anything, it felt like a defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im back pls forgive me.
> 
> For real though; I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to get back on this. Life happens. But I'm determined to keep updates as regular as possible from now on, I promise! As always, feedback is welcome, loved and appreciated! Xx.
> 
> Also; feel free to join me in hell; greenlig-t.tumblr.com.


	15. Chapter 15

It's raining again. 

It's _been_ raining for a week; endless grey skies and dead leaves. It's miserable.

June's miserable. She's miserable, and she wants a cigarette, she wants a _lot_ of cigarettes, and she's too focused on that to focus on the paper she's supposed to be grading, propped up against her legs in the passenger seat of Rick's truck.

He's doing paperwork, too; considerably more effectively than she is, clipboard propped up against the steering wheel and absurdly small to-go cup of hot chocolate balanced at the top, the cardboard sleeve covered in doodles from the half hour of half silence they'd spent sitting in the coffee shop. He's got his headphones in, nodding along to whatever Petty-Mellencamp-Hyatt _thing_ he's listening to.

He's content.

It's infuriating

June hasn't been anything close to content in a week - in a year, probably; but in the last week specifically, she's spent every minute feeling like she's going to shake out of her skin. Her lungs feel like a shaken can of soda; bubbling nausea and the need to _scream_ every time she opens her mouth, or tries to take a breath.

She's not sleeping.

It's not that she _can't_ sleep, necessarily - more, she doesn't want to. Every time her subconscious gets behind the wheel it's all Harley; it's Harley's arm pressed into her neck, it's Harley's hand on her hips, it's the pale pink of her mouth, too close for comfort, the citrus-sweet of her shampoo. It's the crack of hurt in her voice, the anger - the inability to _understand_.

June just wishes she could show her; make Harley see that June's not trying to hurt her, or manipulate her, or _use_ her. She just - she just wants to help, or something like it. She just wants Harley to trust her.

June snorts; a chuff of a laugh at herself, at the concept - it's ridiculous. Harley Quinn doesn't trust _anyone_ \- and why the fuck would June want a serial killer to consider her a confidante, anyway?

It's insane.

She's losing it.

She sighs, free fingers closing around the rim of her Redbull to lift it from the cupholders in the console. It's definitely worse for her than coffee, but Harley can't smell it - or, at least, June assumes so; the girl's hardly left her room in days - and June hasn't been able to give up the caffeine, yet; because, again, she's avoiding sleep.

The side eye Rick gives her as she catches the can against her bottom lip makes her think he's probably onto that bit, but - well, he can't exactly argue with her when she says ' _nightmares'_.

June taps her pen against the top of the paper, spinning it in her fingers and pressing the knuckle of her other hand against her eyelid. She blinks a few times, then groans, dropping the pen and her head back against the seat.

"That bad?" Rick asks, and she rolls her head to the side to find him looking at her, one eyebrow arched and an earbud plucked free.

She shrugs, and is saved from replying - _lying_ , because she hasn't even actually _read_ past the first three sentences of the introduction yet - by the buzz of her phone.

She tugs it free from where it's tucked between her thigh and the seat, thumb flicking over the screen to pull up her messages.

"Moore wants us to go in," she says, knitting her brow at the message and then glancing back up at Rick, whose eyebrow has only arched farther.

"With her? And Harley?" He asks, and June shrugs again - thinking too hard about the movement in the wake of her own burst of panic, heart bursting quick against her chest - what did Harley _tell_ her? Are they taking her away?

"Guess so," June manages, syllables sharp in the back of her mouth. She takes a breath, thumb catching the off button of her phone before she shifts to shove it into her backpocket.

She can hear Rick muttering to himself as they get out of the car - an expletive or two, but he's not _angry_ , just confused, and she’s –

Apprehensive. Tired. Edging on desperate in a way that makes her joints feel like ungreased gears, creaking hinges; she feels like some kind of rusted, broken antique – out of place, out of time. Useless.

The living room is less tense than she expected – the doctor is dwarfed by Rick’s massive armchair, which June’s commandeered since they moved in together; and Harley’s sitting across from her, tucked into the corner of the couch, cocooned in the duvet from her bed. June wants to ask her if she’s warm enough, if she wants tea, or something – June wants to _help_ , wants to get Harley, whose eyes are definitively focused in her lap, to _look_ at her.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything; she follows a pace behind Rick to settle on the couch kitty-corner to Harley’s, pulling a pillow into her lap.

“I have a few suggestions,” Dr. Moore says, and June locks her jaw on every shitty comment she wants to make, moving her hand to cradle her Redbull against her collar. There’s probably some level to her unfettered hate of the woman that’s irrational – probably; somewhere in her brain she knows it’s not entirely legitimate.

But right now she just hates her.

“Of course you do,” Harley sighs, and June can’t help the smirk that cuts in her face at the drawl of it, at Harley’s indignation. She feels eyes on her and looks up, finds the doctor looking at her.

It’s not accusatory. It’s not really _anything_ – but June looks away, to Rick, to the unshaved stubble of his jaw.

“This situation needs to be more cohesive. Assumed temporary as it may be, for the moment it’s also indefinite. Nothing is going to improve, for anyone, if the hostility continues,” and June has to close her eyes on the urge to look at Harley, to ask what she told the doctor. Does the woman know what happened? It isn’t – she and Harley haven’t even acknowledged it, let alone talked about it.

She knows it’s unfair; Harley’s _supposed_ to be honest with this woman, she’s supposed to be talking to her – but the idea that she’s discussed what happened with the doctor before she talked to June makes her feel oddly… hurt. Like some kind of betrayal, almost.

Which is absurd. June _knows_ that. June knows that every goddamn _aspect_ of this is _absurd_.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, a weird, cold pressure in the bottom of her chest.

“Anyone?” Rick echoes, sitting forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, “I thought this was just about Quinn.”

“This isn’t family fucking therapy, Moore,” Harley snaps, and June opens her eyes to see the doctor nod, taking a breath.

“It’s not. But the functionality of this household is necessary to Harley’s improvement, and that requires the health of everyone,” she explains, and June grinds her jaw.

“Can you cut the heavy vocab and just tell us what we’re supposed to do?” She gives, words pressed hard into the back of her teeth, and definitively does _not_ look at Rick when she feels his eyes move to her.

The doctor raises an eyebrow at her.

“Yes,” she gives, “Harley, you need to start exercising again. You were very active before, and while the amount of sleeping you’ve been doing was necessary for your body to heal, it’s turning into hypersomnia. Obviously, though, you can’t work out the way you used to. I want you to start swimming.”

“She doesn’t know how,” June snaps, fingers clenching automatically tight on the can when she realizes she’s spoken, when Dr. Moore’s gaze slides back to her. This time she can feel Harley looking at her, too, and keeps eye contact with the doctor the best she can, can pressed painfully hard into her collarbone.

“Rick, you’re going to teach Harley to swim.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking joking,” Harley starts, indignant and disbelieving and _laughing_. “You’re kidding. He’ll drown me.”

“I won’t _drown_ you, Quinn. I told ya, you’re safe here,” and June hears Harley scoff, closes her eyes again the moment the doctor looks away from her and to the interaction taking place.

“Sure, whatever.”  
  
“What the doc’s saying makes sense. Swimming’s a full-body exercise but it ain’t gonna be traumatic to any of your injuries. Could even be relaxing,” June squeezes her eyes shut tighter, overwhelmed by how ridiculously _good_ the man sitting next to her is – trying to convince a serial killer of his sincerity, trying to help her not be scared, trying to help _period_. It’s – it’s guilt-inducing on a cellular level; like her whole body is wincing. She feels too hot and too cold at the same time; the nausea that’s been sitting as a base level for days gets thicker, and June forces a slow inhale through her nose.

“Relaxing. Yeah. Almost drowning last year really makes me believe you,” Harley says, sharp, and June feels Rick’s weight move as he sighs.

“I won’t let anything bad happen, Quinn. Though – where we s’posed to be doing this?” He asks, and June makes herself open her eyes again, counting down from ten in her head and forcing her body to relax. Getting up to puke is going to get her way, way more attention than she wants right now – particularly from Rick, but the doctor’s got too much fucking _knowing_ on her face.

“Belle Reve, in the training pool. Three times a week. I’ll reserve times for privacy,” she returns her attention to Harley, raising an eyebrow at her. “That means getting up, and eating breakfast,” she says, and June lets herself slip enough to watch Harley roll her eyes.

It’s endearing. It’s too endearing. She looks _grumpy_ and it’s _cute_ and June needs to get some _fucking sleep_.

“And sitting in the car with Captain America for like an hour. Dunno if I’ll be able to keep breakfast down,” Harley quips, pulling her legs onto the couch to tuck them under herself and shaking her head. “Stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I actually brought you something for the nausea, Harley, I expect at your appointment on Wednesday they’re going to tell you you need to be putting on more weight – and Rogers isn’t as tall as Colonel Flag,” she gives, and June’s eyebrows go up as Harley leans forward.

“Who the fuck _are you_?” She asks, sharp. The doctor shrugs.

“I’ve told you that already. Anyway – regarding your appointment. Dr. Moone, you don’t have any lectures or office hours on Wednesdays, correct?” She asks, and it _bothers_ June that this woman knows details about her schedule – as ridiculous as that is; she’s – “You’re going to take Harley to her appointment. Make a day of it, go for lunch, maybe shopping –“

“She’s a convicted criminal!” Rick breaks in, throwing his arm out in Harley’s direction.

Which, June knows is true. Obviously it’s true – but she’s still some kind of pissed off at Rick for it.

Or, maybe she’s just pissed off with Rick.

“For once, I gotta agree with Flag. You want me to walk through the _mall_? Do you _want_ me dead? Or is June the one you’re trying to kill?” And she looks at June – for the first time in a week, she _looks_ at her; eyes bright, looking less tired than June’s probably ever seen her. Her lips are parted, just barely, almost like she’s surprised. Maybe at herself, for looking over. Maybe at June for looking back.

There’s colour in her cheeks; just a little bit, and the bruising on her neck has almost faded, and June just wants to _laugh_ with her, once. She misses her.

It’s stupid.

June’s never felt more idiotic in her life. Except, maybe, when she fell into that hole.

Yeah. That was pretty stupid.

“You’ll have a chaperone. One. Colonel Flag, I assume you’ll want one of the shifts, but I’d like you to pick someone else from your team to take part of the day. And Harley, I brought you some tattoo cover up. The whitest I could find,” the doctor explains, leaning forward to pull a bottle from her bag. “Cover your tattoos. Wear a hoodie that covers your neck. I brought you some basic makeup, too; a bit of a change in pallor will help. Wear a hat,”

“Wear a hat?” June echoes, disbelieving – it’s probably obvious she hates the woman, which is probably counterproductive, but _honestly_ \- “She’s one of the most infamous criminals on the _planet_.”

The doctor smiles at her. It’s infuriating.

“Harley’s trademarks are her tattoos. Her hair. The way she dresses. Cover up, wear civilian’s clothes. Don’t carry a giant mallet – you _will_ still look like yourself, but not this version,” she gives, pulling Harley’s file from her bag and tapping the photo paperclipped to the front.

It’s Harley’s most recent mugshot; soaking wet, smile blinding and psychotic. Harley looks away.

“People will only see what they want to see,” the doctor finishes, fitting the file back in her bag.

It’s quiet, for a moment.

“We’ll have to wait till after Wednesday to start swimming, so ya can buy a bathing suit at the mall,” Rick says finally, and June’s eyes drift from the incredulous look Harley’s shooting him to the small, approving smile the doctor is passing between the pair.

“Perfect,” she gives, and presses forward to stand. Rick, perfect southern gentleman that he is, stands with her. “I’ll leave instructions with Waller – you can spend the day out on Wednesday, and start swimming on Friday. And I’ll see you on Monday,” she says – decides, and it almost bothers June, Harley’s acquiescence – it’s weird. It’s _wrong_. All she does is toss her hands up and shake her head.

“Whatever,” she gives, and Rick crosses as the doctor does, pulling the woman’s coat down from the hook at the door. He holds it out for her, and June half-expects Harley to look back and roll her eyes.

She doesn’t, and once the woman – whose size is made ridiculously clear in contrast to Rick, barely reaching his mid-bicep but somehow… _imposing_ , despite June being positive that even _she_ could probably throw the doctor across the room – has her coat on, Rick opens the door for her.

She thanks him, and half-pauses in the doorframe to toss a goodbye over her shoulder. “Happy Halloween.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back. june's lowkey (highkey) losing her mind. taking bets on if rick figures out she wants harley before harley figures it out!!
> 
> thank you for reading; feedback always appreciated, motivating, and welcome. Xx.
> 
> [ http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com ]


	16. don't worry, i'm not in a hurry

 

The baby is crying.

June doesn’t understand how such a tiny body can make so much _sound_ – it’s almost painfully piercing, and June’s done the research; she knows sometimes there’s no _reason_ , the baby just won’t settle – for days on end. And June supposes she understands; if someone had forced her into existence without asking what she thought about it first, she’d probably be pissed too. 

She supposes she probably _was_. She should call her mom; ask for some _help_.

She can’t remember the last time she called her mom.

“Rick,” she mutters, pushing her hand out from under the pillow to grab his shoulder. She shakes him, the best she can with the leverage of lying completely flat. “ _Rick_. 

There’s no answer, which isn’t _fair_ – she knows there’s some kind of biological _thing_ that means the crying wakes her up before him, is harder for her to ignore than him, but that doesn’t mean it’s not stupid as fuck.

God makes mistakes.

“ _Rick_ , it’s your turn –“ she starts, harsh as she pushes her hands into the mattress and presses herself up. 

But it’s not Rick lying next to her. It’s white skin and blue eyes, less focused than the ones she’s used to – frighteningly bright, like they’re looking through her, like they’re seeing something she _can’t_ , something nobody else can.

He stares at her for a moment; expressionless, the green of his hair staining against the white pillowcase – and then, the red of his mouth cuts into something wider; a gruesome wound in the centre of his face; he _smiles_.

 

 

June doesn’t scream herself awake, anymore. She hasn’t in months.

She does this time, startling up from the awkward, half-uprght position she’d passed out on the couch in. She _shrieks_ , feels it cutting raw in her throat. Hands catch her wrists and she fights them – or, tries, tries to force Rick away from her and gets shoved back instead, down, so she’s lying flat on the couch.

“Open your eyes. June, _look_ ,” and that’s not Rick, either – June does as the voice says, still sobbing as she tries to catch her breath, and Harley is above her, eyes wide and present and _worried_.

June lets out another sort of half-sob, and then relaxes, letting her arms drop to her chest and closing her eyes. Harley’s hands go down, too, fingers curved around June’s wrists, and she focuses on the way the girl’s knuckles press into her collarbone, taking one shuddering breath after another.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” She hears Rick calling, and looks up to watch Harley roll her eyes. Rick comes around the couch, towel tucked around his waist, soap in his hair and gun up. In another half second, there’s three pounding knocks at the door, and June hears the door handle bounce off the wall when it’s burst open.

“Quinn. Get up, put your hands in the air,” and Rick whirls around from where he’d been sweeping the room to face them – it’s almost endearing, kind of, that his solider-brain hadn’t even catalogued the serial killer in the room, holding his fiancée down.

“For fuck’s sake,” June gives, turning her hands up to catch Harley’s wrists in return, keeping her in place. “I had a goddamn nightmare. Harley woke me up and kept me from hurting myself, Jesus Christ. Get out of my house,” she shoots, and Rick raises an eyebrow at her before he lowers his gun, lifting a hand to the men at the door.

“We’re good, gentleman. And I’m naked. Out,” he tells them, and there’s some mutterings of _Yes sir_ and _Colonel Flag_ and then the three of them are left alone in the living room, June still holding Harley’s wrists and trying to catch her breath.

“You’re grumpy in the mornings,” Harley remarks, and June _almost_ laughs – mostly smirks, rolling her eyes at the _absurdity_ – and glancing at Rick.

“You’re getting soap all over the carpet, babe,” she tells him, and he looks down, putting one hand in his hair.

“Yeah. Seriously Flag, do you _shower_ with your sidearm?” Harley asks, and this time June _does_ laugh, a burst of a thing in the centre of her chest. Rick rolls his eyes, thumb tucking into his towel to hold it tighter to his waist.

“You okay, June?” He asks, and she nods, taking her best aim at sincerity in a look. He considers her a moment longer, then nods himself and starts out of the living room.

June’s still holding onto Harley.

“That was… different,” Harley gives, and June snorts, letting her eyes close like she can focus hard enough to slow her own heart down.

“You mean than when you tried to suffocate me in your bedroom?” She asks, mostly before she can think about it but also testing, just a little bit, because they used to tell each other the _truth_. Harley sharpens; freezes against her, sitting on the couch with her hip tucked against June’s torso – and then it drops and she’s relaxing and laughing, too. June squeezes her wrists.

“I didn’t try to suffocate you,” Harley gives, and June opens her eyes again to find the girl sitting back – not pulling back, but posture relaxing. She smiles at her, a half-smirk sort of thing. “There’s no _try_ , just do. Do you want a cup of coffee?” She says, and June blinks at her, surprised, then shakes her head.

“So if you wanted me dead I’d be dead, basically –“ she starts, and Harley smirks a little more, humming as she nods. “Very comforting. No, no coffee, I’m trying to stop,” she says, and Harley’s eyebrow arches ever higher as she sits back a little more, glancing at the coffee table – where three empty cans of Redbull sit. June shrugs. “You can’t smell it.”

“Uh, maybe, but I’m gonna be pissed if your heart stops from drinking straight crack,” Harley tells her, shaking her head and releasing her wrists.

“Haven’t you literally done crack? How can you judge me for an _energy_ drink,” June says, rolling her wrists out on the loss of pressure. For once, Harley was almost warm, and June pushes her hands into the couch to make herself sit up.

“My body can take a lot of shit, remember?” Harley gives back, picking up one of the empties. She hasn’t stood up from the couch yet, and as June sits up she lets her thigh rest against Harley’s hip.

The contact is kind of nice. Different. They’re almost the same size; June doesn’t feel dwarfed – not that she doesn’t like that feeling, it’s just – _different_.

“You’re a mere mortal,” she goes on, and June scoffs.

“I was literally possessed.”

“Right, God, you _really_ need me to think you’re badass, don’t you?” Harley gives, vaguely judgmental for a moment, before June sees the curving in the corner of her mouth.

“I don’t need you to _think_ anything, I’m just trying to highlight the truth of the matter,” June explains, and it’s _easy_. They’re easy. The easiest they’ve been since Harley was in Belle Reve – it’s a back and forth June barely needs to think about, even if it should be painful based on nothing but subject matter.

It would be painful, with Rick, who worries about her so much, who’s so _concerned_ – like he’s waiting for her to go off like a bomb, like the gravity of what happened is suddenly going to hit her and she’s going to lose it.

And she understands, of course – it’s a trauma. Most of Rick’s encounters with PTSD _have_ lead to an outburst of some kind – he’s seen bad things happen to good people . She knows that. That’s part of the problem; she was one of those bad things.

But Harley – Harley just treats it like what it _is_. The truth. No more and no less than that; just accurate. Sometimes June thinks that, in comparison to the other things she’s seen, what she did is barely a blip on Harley’s radar.

“I’m gonna go finish trying to make myself look… normal. Have a cup of tea, or something. Eat breakfast,” Harley tells her, getting up, and June follows her lead, swinging her legs off the couch.

“Do you want something to eat?"

“Already ate. Flag made pancakes.”

“You… managed to eat? Together? Without me?” June asks, and Harley shoots her a _look_ from where she’s standing at the end of the couch, rolling her eyes.

“We’re not pre-schoolers June, we don’t actually need a chaperone. And we weren’t going to wake you; you look like the walking dead,” Harley tells her, and June half-smiles, sighing and bringing a hand up to touch the bun falling apart on top of her head.

“So I’ve heard,” she mutters, pressing her face into her hands. She hears Harley laugh, and when she looks up again the girl is gone.

June sighs, pushing herself up from the couch and heading towards the kitchen. Food isn’t exactly a bad suggestion, after all, and she pops a bagel in the toaster before perusing Rick’s collection of teas. She grabs some kind of organic-citrus-green one and flicks on the kettle, buttering her bagel while she waits for it to boil. She grabs an apple for good measure, and then chugs a glass of cold water, figuring she ought to at least _attempt_ to rehydrate before throwing more caffeine and carbs in the mix.

She eats, slowly, picking apart the bagel at the kitchen table and trying to put together the bits of her dream – she remembers the Joker, grinning at her like something out of a horror movie. She remembers the screaming, too – it may have been her own. Or, maybe, it was crying. She remembers feeling _exhausted_ , so tired she could barely shift in the bed. She can’t remember whose bed it was, though, if it was hers, or just something her brain made up.

Eventually – bagel half gone, apple core tossed out, on her second cup of tea – she gets up and goes to the bedroom, finds Rick halfway through getting changed. He drops the towel from his head when she comes in, hair sticking up in all directions.

“Hey. You okay?” He asks, and June nods, setting her mug on the dresser and crossing her arms over her waist to pull her shirt up, off.

“Nightmares. Same as always,” she says, which is kind of true but mostly not, but she feels more optimistic about it than she has in a while. “I don’t even remember falling asleep,”

“It was like, 8pm,” Rick tells her, mouth curving into endeared affection – a smile she only ever sees directed at her. June snorts, stepping out of her sweatpants. “You needed it,” he adds, coming forward to catch a hand at her waist. She lets him – it’s, disarming, a little bit, to go from pressed against Harley to pressed against Rick, but he’s as warm and comforting as he always is, smells like mint toothpaste and a cologne she’s never met another guy wearing; like maple walnut ice cream and melted caramel. His other hand comes up to her jaw, tilting her head back and brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Your eyes are brighter. You look less ghostly,” he says, and June scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Everyone’s so full of compliments today. Harley says I look like a zombie, you say I don’t look _as_ undead as I did,” she tells him, and he breaks into a grin, his hand drifting to the back of her neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, thumb brushing over the base of her skull as he presses his lips to her forehead, then tilts to catch her mouth. It’s light, gentle – his lips brush over hers once, then twice, and then he’s pulling her into a hug, and June lets herself settle against the warmth of him. “You’re just tired.”

“Yeah,” she admits, brings her arms up around his back and closes her eyes.

“Are you going to be okay today? It’s a pretty long day, and I know you’ve still got midterms to grade,” his hand drifts her spine, comes to curve over her shoulder and press fingers into the tension of it. June hums.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll bring some with me, they don’t need to be done until Friday,” she tells him, then adjusts to pull back and look at him. “Besides, I’m the teacher. What are they going to do if I miss my own deadline?” She gives, smiling at him, and he chuckles, presses in to kiss her again.

“Whatever you say, Professor Moone,” he tells her, then lets her go. “Shower’s all yours, baby.”

 

 
    
    
    ✖
    
    
    ✖

 

 

It doesn’t fit right. 

Admittedly, Harley hasn’t worn a bathing suit since – well, since ever probably, as far as _she_ can remember – but she still thinks it’s fitting _wrong_. She _does_ have underwear, after all; the same principle applies.

Then again, maybe it’s not the bathing suit that’s the problem – maybe it’s _her_.

It’s not a huge difference. Not really. She doesn’t think anyone besides her can even _see_ it – after all, she’s been wearing a lot more clothing than she ever used to.

But it’s there. A hard, definitive curve jutting just over her hipbones; more than anything it looks like it could just be bad posture – but it’s not. It’s a real, actual, human – tiny, but _there_. She’d seen it, on the screen; today was the first time she’d actually _looked_ , had kept her eyes definitively diverted anytime they wheeled the ultrasound machine into the hospital room. Not today; today, she’d kept her eyes on the screen, she’d watched, and listened when the tech ran the Doppler over her abdomen, pounded the heartbeat through the speakers.

She’d watched, and listened, and _waited_ – because it was supposed to be something gravitational. According to the book June got her, according to every tv show Harley’s ever seen, hearing the heartbeat is supposed to _do_ something to her. Make her love it, or something; make her feel like a _mother_.

She doesn’t. She feels like an incubator – and she wishes, _desperately_ , that she could feel more, anything but fear and dread and _angry._ She wishes she could stop crying in the shower and fit herself back inside her skin – but she can’t even fit herself in the fucking _bathing suit_.

There’s a knock; a single rap of knuckles on the door, and Harley’s ready to put on her best normal-person voice and tell the sales woman _no, thank you, I don’t need any help_ , when June asks if she’s okay.

Harley winces, considers herself in the mirror for a half-second and then opens the changing room door, fingers closing on June’s wrist to tug her in quick, and June half-stumbles over her own feet, eyes wide in surprise. Harley shuts the door again, flat of her hand pushing the lock back into place, and shrugs at June.

“I hate this,” she declares, gestures to herself, is so consumed with hating it that she almost misses the triple-take appraisal June looks over her with.

Maybe it fits better than Harley thinks it does.

“I think the top is too small for you."

“Probably. My tits are huge _already_. What’s up with that?” Harley gives back, shaking her head as she tries to get her arms behind herself to undo the tie. It probably doesn’t help that her neck and face don’t match the rest of her body by about three tones, that she’s stitched and bandaged at the seams like a ragdoll – and seeing her own face tattoo-less for the first time in years is, in and of itself, disturbing.

Disarming.

Kind of nice.

“That happened to Rick’s sister, too. We can go buy you some new bras, too, if you want,” June suggests, and then she’s stepping in behind Harley and her fingers brush against Harley’s wrists, pulling her hands from the desperate way she’s tugging at the tie and taking over.

It’s weird, probably. They shouldn’t be able to interact like this. Harley keeps looking at June and thinking about the way her breath had jumped in her throat when Harley had gotten really, properly close, how she’d smells like cherries and frost. She wonders what June thinks about – if she thinks about what _happened_ at all. If it bothers her like it bothers Harley; it’s not like Harley’s never caught her looking, but that’s not really _new_. And she’s fucking _engaged_. To a _man_.

And Harley’s a globally-infamous criminal carrying the Joker’s baby – and she’s the Joker’s, anyway. She is. She knows that; he _made_ her. It’s true whether or not she anyone else can see it.

Harley feels the tie come loose at the back of her neck but June catches it before it falls off, hand resting at the base of Harley’s skull to hold the strings up and free hand pulling free the clip at Harley’s back. She keeps hold of the bathing suit until Harley takes it, and then she’s offering up a bigger piece of navy fabric.

“Try this. A one piece is probably better to learn to swim in, anyway. It won’t come off,” she explains, and Harley half-considers for a moment before she takes it, deciding she’d really rather _not_ lose her top in front of Soldier Boy. “Did you want me to grab some bras to try from here, or do you want to go to Victoria’s Secret or Pink or something?” June asks, hand on the lock for the door, and Harley shrugs.

“Here is fine. It’s not like anyone’s gonna see it,” she says, and June’s brow knits.

“You’re going to see it,” she gives, like it’s relevant, and Harley arches an eyebrow at her.

“Yeah?”

“You’re allowed to wear pretty stuff just because it makes _you_ feel good, you know,” June tells her, dead-blue holding Harley’s eyes dead-on, and it’s sharp, _poignant_ – Harley looks away, into the mirror as she steps out of the bottoms.

June’s eyes stay on her in the mirror; on her face, and it doesn’t even look like an _effort_ , and that creepy-crawly anxious _angry_ is spindling spider-legs into Harley’s throat again.

“Whatever.”

“Let’s finish here, get something to eat, then go to Victoria’s Secret,” June says, eyes still on Harley’s face as Harley steps into the suit and pulls it up, fits her arms in.

It’s better than the other one. It’s a _lot_ better than the other one.

“That’s nice,” June says, stepping away from the door again; her knuckles brush the top of Harley’s spine as she pulls the suit away from Harley’s body, tucks the tag in. “Do you feel better?” She asks, her hand resting flat at the top notch of Harley’s spine, and for a second, Harley can’t breathe.

She wants to _ask_. She wants to know; what June’s motivations are – _why_ they moved Harley in, why she was at the hospital all the time, why she started visiting Harley in jail. Why does she have that photo on her phone? Why did she try to talk to Harley the other night? Why does she _trust_ her so much? Why didn’t she _scream_?

She gave up coffee. She gave up smoking. She gave up her time. She put her relationship on the line. She made herself a target. And Harley wants to know _why_.

“Yeah,” Harley says finally, nodding and meeting June’s eyes in the mirror again. “I feel better. Do you think they have it in pink?”

June smiles.

 

 

 

“This is so weird,” Harley mutters, hands shoved in the pockets of the army-green jacket June bought her, shoulders hunched.

“What part?” June asks, shoulder bumping Harley’s as they pass a man in a suit with a phone pressed to his ear. 

“All of it. But especially the blending in bit.”

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“You sound like Moore.”

June smiles, just a quirk of a thing in the corner of her mouth Harley only catches in a side-glance, and she shrugs. “I’m pretty sure if you’re miserable we’re kind of missing the point of the day,” she says, and Harley sighs, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not miserable,” she says, flexes her fingers in her pockets. “I’d just rather not get either of us killed.”

“Agreed,” June gives, slowing a little as she leads them around a corner. “Moore seems to have been right, though. I haven’t even seen anyone double-take,” she goes on, glancing back at Harley. “Hiding your hair is pretty effective, honestly. Besides, Abdulsattar is a good shot,” she explains, eyes slipping past Harley for a moment. Harley resists the urge to look back; they hadn’t introduced her to the agent or anything, but she knows what he looks like, trailing them about thirty feet back in a dark green USF pullover.

“Maybe I should dye it,” Harley mutters, coming to a stop next to June when they round into the food court. “Like, really dye it. Not blue.”

“You could. I like your hair now, though – what do you want to eat?” June asks, half-turning to look at Harley, who, now that they’re surrounded by food, is suddenly aware of how _hungry_ she is.

It’s new. She hasn’t been hungry, _really_ hungry, in a while. Moore’s medicine – which Harley’s half-sure is completely herbal – works.

“I really want a chilli-cheese dog,” Harley says, words occurring to her before the actual thought does, and June’s eyebrows go up, lips turning in a confused sort of smile.

“ _Really_?” She asks, surprised, and Harley rolls her eyes, bumping June with her elbow as she passes her.

“Fuck off,” she says, starting towards New York Fries. It’s companionable. It’s _easy_. And part of Harley is on edge, sure – because it i _s_ weird, walking around in public, no one bothering to spare her a second glance; bumping elbows and shoulders and banter with June like they’re friends, like it’s _normal_. The normal, though; it’s wrong, but it’s not _bad_. It feels like a dream, hazy and strange, a bubble waiting to pop and reveal that she’s _not_ part of this world, that she won’t ever be again.

But no one can see her tattoos. She can’t even see them, in the reflection of windows and stainless steel accents; there’s nothing standing her out, nothing _separating_ her. It doesn’t even feel like play-acting, not really; the eye-rolls and short shots June’s been giving her are just like when she was in Belle Reve – and June bumps her again as she catches up, so Harley looks up at her.

She’s tired. Harley can see that she’s tired – has been seeing it for days, weeks, whenever she’s bothered to look. She’d figured June was just overworking herself – she seemed like the type, and the stack of books on her desk had kept changing, consistent as a clock, highlighters and pens tossed in new arrays every day.

It hadn’t occurred to her that June would be having nightmares, too. Harley hadn’t _thought_ of that, had been too caught up in being _angry_ about the idyllic, quaint constraints of June’s life to actually _think_ about it.

She’s got PTSD, obviously – which Harley should have _known_ , if not because she actually kind of likes June, occasionally, then because she’s supposed to be good at _paying attention_. Watching, listening, observing – that’s who Harley is – and if she thinks about it, she can put the pieces together on the pale sheen to June’s skin, the slight, occasional shake in her fingers. She actively avoids sleep; Harley’s seen it, the energy drinks popped open at ridiculous hours, always awake whenever Harley leaves her room. She’s not jumpy, not nervous, but that in and of itself is _wrong_ – and Harley’s seen it before, the curl of her fingers into fists at her sides, against her thighs, the slow rise of her chest like she’s forcing a counted breath.

It’s embarrassing actually, that Harley hadn’t put it together before now; before this morning. She’d been halfway through trying to blend the foundation into the cover-up when she’d heard June screaming; keening, more like, a loud, cutting sob-whimper. Harley had actually _waited_ , listened for it to stop, to hear Rick’s low voice cut into it – and then it had turned into real screaming, a sharp, shattering noise.

Harley hadn’t waited anymore – had gone out into the living room on her own, found June clutching the blanket Rick had draped over her the night before to her chest, face screwed up in pain while she _howled_. It was – painful, somehow, to watch. It made Harley _hurt_.

She hadn’t really thought about it, before she grabbed June. It had been stupid, probably; _definitely_ , if the reactions of the agents breaking through the door was anything to go off of. But Harley didn’t feel wrong about it; didn’t even really _regret_ it, especially not when June looked so small, so scared, so _sick_.

There was some self-punishing part of Harley that wondered if June had been having a nightmare about _her_ , had been screaming the way she should have when Harley’s hand was around her throat – but then she’d held her; kept Harley in place when she could have shoved her away, when Soldier Boy was less than a foot away.

Harley didn’t know what to make of it. She doesn’t really know what to make of anything, these days. Half the time she doesn’t feel like an active participant in her own existence, anymore – just a forced observer, strapped down and gagged.

“What ya gonna get?” Harley asks as they step into line, and June shrugs, shakes her head.

“Not hungry.”

Harley looks at her – looks _hard_ , for the first time since her bedroom, cuts her eyes across the high jut of June’s cheek and the pale hollow at the base of her throat.

“You should go get coffee,” she decides aloud, gesturing towards the Starbucks a stall over. “Something fancy. And somethin’ high-carb and high-sugar to dip in it,” she goes on, earning a top-five incredulous _what?_ expression. Harley rolls her eyes. “Moore’s anti-nausea stuff works, or whatever. And the Redbull’s gonna kill you. Seriously, get a fucking coffee,” Harley tells her, and June just _looks_ at her for a moment longer, expression relaxing into something like a smile, something warm, and then she hands Harley a ten dollar bill and walks off.

She gets a chilli-cheese dog and a large fries and sets the latter in the centre of the table June corrals for them, smirking to herself about the teenage cashier who’d been too busy looking at her boobs to even _bother_ looking at her face and the weird high she’s starting to get from the invisibility until she realizes June’s gotten nothing but a large black coffee.

“I’m telling Soldier Boy you didn’t eat,” she announces, shrugging out of her jacket.

“What are you, my mother?” June shoots back, indignant and pulling the cardboard cup closer to herself, like a buffer. Harley shrugs.

“Why, ya wanna talk about your mother?”

June arches an eyebrow at her, in response to which Harley gives a pointed _look_ at the fries, then back at June, who sighs and reaches to pluck one free.

“I had breakfast,” she mutters, “What’s with you?”

“I don’t wanna throw up for the first time in like, two months. I got energy for once. It’s liberating. Whole new chick,” she declares, smiling with a shrug as she starts to roll up her sleeve. June smiles too, this time grabbing a handful of fries from the plate – and then the smile drops and she reaches out, fingers closing over Harley’s wrist.

It’s a light grip – gentle against the downgraded bandage now plastered over her stitches, and Harley falters, holding her breath at the contact, at the mistake.

“Right,” she gives quietly, looking at the black and red jester squares peeking out along her forearm. She grabs the edge of her sleeve again, tugging it back down to her wrist as June lets go. “Shit.”

“It’s fine,” June tells her, fingers spreading out to dismiss it – “No one saw. I’ll grab you a plastic knife and fork,” she says, and then tilts her head, smile breaking on her face again. “And myself a salad, if that’ll get you off my back.”

Harley’s heart is beating a little too hard, and her mouth feels dry and the usually dull ache of her wrists is a bit more bursting; a pound in her pulse points. It’s not panic, exactly – it’s not even really embarrassment, it’s –

It’s a bubble burst. It was one thing, to stand naked in the change room and see herself in the mirror, distorted and disconnected and sewn back together like a Frankenstein-wannabe; one thing even to toy with her invisibility, the freedom of it, the blind ignorance of every person she walked past – that was almost _fun_ , but the abrupt reminder of the actual, life-threatening need to _hide_ , of her existence on the outside looking in; it was a needle to the balloon, a crack-burst echo in the back of her head.

“Harley?” June prompts, and suddenly she’s close, hand on the table and half-bent so she’s right in front of her, so no one can hear her say Harley’s name. “We can go whenever you want.”

It’s interesting, how June’s eyes never get any brighter; even when she’s animated, even when she’s up close, searching Harley’s like she’ll find something no one else has. She’s wearing makeup, but Harley can still see the heavy shadows under her eyes, violet bruises under dark teal. Harley has the overwhelming urge to do something stupid – do something attention-grabbing, pull both sleeves up and shout or, or –

“I have a hotdog to eat,” Harley says, gesturing to the tray in front of her without looking away from June, whose head tilts, who, Harley thinks, moves in a little bit closer, who’s looking at Harley like she knows something Harley doesn’t. “And a bra to buy,” she adds, and there’s a half-beat, a second, before June’s eyes flick from her face to the cut of Harley’s shirt and then back up, and then June’s smiling, laughing, and Harley’s laughing too. “Couldn’t help yourself, could ya?”

“It’s like telling someone not to think of an elephant, expecting them to think about anything _besides_ an elephant,” June tells her, and Harley rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she pops a fry in her mouth.

“Are you calling me fat?”

June snorts, straightening out and taking another fry for herself. “No. I think a mundane existence suits you, actually,” she adds, smile turning to a smirk, and Harley arches an eyebrow at her. “I think you look great, Harley,” June adds, quieter; Harley’s name tacked to the end under her breath. June’s eyes search her face for a second, then settle on Harley’s, long enough for Harley to watch June’s shoulders rise and fall in a full breath.

“I’ll be right back,” June says, and her fingers touch, light, to the inside of Harley’s wrist again before she walks off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one got away from me. but honestly, who doesn't wanna just see harley and june hanging out sometimes?
> 
> as always, feedback welcome, needed, and appreciated!
> 
> feel free to [hmu](http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com).


	17. so low you keep getting high

Harley sees Rick trade off with the other agent – Abdulsattar, she thinks June called him – as she and June leave the mall, and as they turn off the main streets and onto the highway, she sees the big black Sedan behind them weave a little bit, slowing down to let another car pass it and keep a measurable, relatively unnoticeable distance from them. 

Harley thinks it would probably be more _unnoticeable_ if the vehicle wasn’t so _obviously_ Government-issue – anyone who wants her, anyone who wants _June_ , is going to know better than to think that they’re out here alone, given a free pass just for kicks.

Then again, Harley supposes the chaperone may be more about keeping _her_ under control than keeping them both out of trouble – but, still; Harley’s wanted by enough people that she can’t see them letting her out without a babysitter intended to keep her where she belongs.

And, now she thinks of it, June’s a pretty precious commodity, too.

She’s not sure how much was publicized about what happened in Metro City – she figures the party line, _terror attack_ , is what was fed to any reporters – and she figures that’s probably _accurate_ , if not completely descriptive. But she’s not sure if June, or witch-bitch, ended up anywhere in the news; she doesn’t think so, because that would have been _global_ , hard to miss even handcuffed to the radiator in the hotel room. That doesn’t mean no one _knows_ , however – J knew, after all; and he could spread secrets like a virus if he thought it was a benefit to his work.

Harley could see the logic behind it, behind passing along to the baddies of the world that good ol’ Colonel Flag’s lady-love was a _demon_. He’d gotten himself firmly in the middle of enough conflicts to be a thorn in the side of plenty; classified as his existence may be, there were still foolproof ways of getting information out of people. 

After all, Harley had known his name before they’d tried to dupe her with the ‘terror attack’ – she’d even known his face, in some vaguely-recognizable way.

 _Top Secret_ just doesn’t mean what it used to.

“You want to play some music?” June asks, pulling Harley’s focus from where she’d spaced out out the window. She turns her head to the girl, finding her perched with one leg up in the driver’s seat again, one hand curved at the bottom of the wheel.

“I’m definitely not allowed access to your phone. You’re really bad at this jailer stuff, kid,” Harley tells her, and June laughs, shaking her head.

“I’m not your jailer, Harley, I’m your –“

“Yeah, yeah, friend, roommate, whatever. I’m still not allowed to access your phone,” Harley gives back, and June shakes her head again, lifting the compartment between them without looking away from the road to pull an Ipod, already plugged into the console, out, and hold it out to Harley. “If this is all country, I’m gonna actually roll out of the car,” Harley tells her, and June smirks, chancing her a glance.

“ _I_ wasn’t actually born in Texas. Not a country kid, not a country person. You’re safe; stay in the car,” June says, and Harley watches her switch hands on the wheel to reach and hit the car-lock. “Just for good measure,” June adds, and Harley laughs.

“Where were you born, anyway?” Harley asks, hitting _Artists_ on the Ipod and starting to scroll.

“England,” June says, and Harley stops, looking up to stare at the side of June’s head.

She’s pulled her hair up, revealing the Industrial in her cartilage. Harley wonders when she got it; if it was a college thing, a recent thing, if she got it when she got the tattoo on her back. If she has more tattoos; if anything else is pierced.

“England?” Harley repeats, and June looks at her, nodding before she looks back at the road.

“Exeter, in Devon. My father still lives there.”

“You’re not even _American_? How does touching you not like – make Soldier Boy melt away, like when Voldemort touches Harry Potter?” Harley gives, earning herself another _look_ , this time accompanied, by a wide, happy, _surprised_ grin. June laughs.

“Really?”

“What? You think Belle Reve was the first time I read those books? I was a kid once, you know,” Harley shoots back, and June laughs again, so Harley laughs too, because it’s easy and it’s _infectious_ to see June happy, to see her bright.

“My mom is American. She’s from Seattle, I have dual citizenship,” June explains, smile turning to a smirk. “It probably still stings a little when he gets too close, though.”

“When you guys have sex, does he shout ‘ _The Redcoats are coming!’_ ? Cause I feel like that would kill the mood.” 

“Shutup,” June gives, sharp but without venom, even as her free hand reaches out to rap knuckles against Harley’s bicep, light.

Harley snorts, turns her attention back to scrolling through the Ipod until she finds a band she recognizes.

“ _Glass Animals_. Speaking of sex, they’re good to fuck to,” Harley says, and June coughs, a surprised-scoff of a thing, and when Harley looks up she’s smiling but looks confused about it, like she can’t decide how she’s supposed to feel. Idle, Harley opens the artist and hits the song at the top of the list, _Agnes_ , then turns the Ipod over in her lap. “ _I’m_ not a glass animal, you know. You can stop acting like I’m fragile.”

It’s not sharp; not really. It’s not even all that angry. Harley’s just – tired. She’s tired of the constant shift; of being fine with June one second and then uncomfortable, charged, over-emotional and feeling like she’s hovering a match over a fuse. She can’t even tell anymore, which of them is treading lightly around the other – and she _knows_ ; she’s not stupid, she’s not _crazy, she’s not she’s not she’s not_ – of course it’s uncomfortable. Of course it’s _weird_.

Harley is a serial killer. _June_ is a serial killer – or, Harley supposes that the more accurate term would be _mass murderer_ , but – but she’s also a College Professor; she’s a normal person with a grocery list and a job and a person to go home to and a _home_. Harley doesn’t have that counterpart, the _mundane_ bit June had said looked good on her – she hasn’t had it for as long as she can remember; in real memories, anyway, not the ones that pop up in her dreams like a half-wrecked film strip, choppy and blurred.

Not only that – Harley’s completely invaded her life; Harley, who tried to _kill her_. And what the fuck was that about, anyway? Harley still didn’t _really_ understand what June’s – _thank you_ , had been about, the first time she’d come to visit her in Belle Reve. Harley really had been trying to kill her; it, the witch-bitch – but she’d done it, knowing that it was intricately, irrevocably attached to June’s life.

Sure, she’d _hoped_ for a happy ending. She hadn’t known June, and she hadn’t liked Flag, but she’d _hoped_ everything would be okay – for someone, at least. For anyone, even if it couldn’t be Harley herself.

But she’d still tried to kill her.

And now – now, she’s pregnant, and it’s not a really secret that she’s not _handling it well_. It’s not really a secret that the circumstances of conception, were, for lack of a better term – pretty _fucked up_. It’s not really a secret that Harley’s a mess; even if June keeps leaving the bedroom door unlocked, it’s not really a secret that Harley is _dangerous_.

She isn’t fragile, though. She _refuses_ to be fragile, to be easily breakable – she’s _tired_ of it, of being at the mercy of everyone else, of the kid-gloves and the bubblewrap and all the duct tape they keep using to try and hold her together. She ripped herself apart; she knows that. June knows that. _Flag_ knows that.

But she’s still fucking getting up in the morning. They should give her some goddamn _credit_.

“I worry about you, Harley,” June says finally. “This has to be – hard. Understatement. It’s probably _impossible_. If I were you – I can’t even imagine _being_ you. I’m sorry, I just –“ she breaks off, shaking her head. It’s quiet, for a moment; Harley watches June inhale, drifts her eyes over the hair falling loose from her bun, half-listens to the melody of the song.

_You see the sad in everything a_ _, genius of love and loneliness and –_

“It’s hard not to worry when you couldn’t even look me in the eye when you came out of the doctor’s office. It’s hard not to worry when I’m pretty sure you almost killed me a week ago,” June says suddenly, all in a rush, almost _angry_ , and Harley sharpens, the vague gloss-haze that had set light into the ease of the afternoon bursting like the shatter of a filament in a bulb. “And we don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about _anything_. I don’t want to _push you_ , Harley, but – but at least in Belle Reve it felt like maybe you were telling me the truth, sometimes, at least _part of it_. Now I’m lucky if I even _see_ you on a day-to-day basis, which is fucking insane when we live in the _same house_. It’s like you’re a ghost. It’s like _I’m_ the ghost. And I know – I know you have _so much going on_. I know I can’t even begin to imagine, let alone grasp, what it’s like for you right now. But _God_ , I worry for you. I never know what you’re going to do.

“I’m not scared _of_ you, Harley, but I’m scared _for_ you. You almost fucking _died_ – you looked so goddamn _small_ in that hospital bed, and then I thought it would be okay because you were still, y’know, _you_ , but then I brought you home, and – and everything just _changed_. You don’t even look at me, now, and I know I hurt you when I stopped coming to visit, but I didn’t want to make it worse. It feels like everything I try to do for you just makes it _worse_ – So I’m sorry, because I know I’m treating you with a buffer and I know you fucking hate it, but I don’t know what else to do for you. Or for me. I don’t know what to do,” there’s a desperate glance, dead-blue burning a colour _off_ , something Harley can’t quite catch in the wild, fast look June whips her with – “Tell me what to do." 

Harley doesn’t know what to say.

For the first time in a long time, Harley doesn’t have a response – something offhand to minimize the outburst, to deflect; something defensive, something angry. She’s got nothing to say. She doesn’t even know what to _feel_.

_It’s hard not to worry when I’m pretty sure you almost killed me a week ago._

“I didn’t try to kill you,” she manages, finally, feels the words crack their way up her throat like a hammer through ice. “I wouldn’t have – I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was just. Angry. I’m angry,” she goes on, and it’s _weird_ , it’s – _wrong_. She wants the words back as soon as she says them; the rush of honesty and _real_ , it feels like she’s picking her stitches apart.

“I know.”

“You were right, before. Fucking stupid. I hate that you were right. I hated it then. I hated the fucking _assumption_ – when you said I wouldn’t hurt you, you told the bastard at Belle Reve to let me out of the gag and shit and said I wouldn’t hurt you. I hated you for it. I still hate you for it. But you were right; I won’t hurt you. I don’t think I could hurt you,” it all comes out in a rush; a stuttery, too-fast, choppy rush. “It was – I wanted – it was just –“ and she can’t find the words; can’t find anything to _say_ , doesn’t know how to explain how _good_ June’s skin felt under her hands, warm and real and _alive_ , doesn’t know how to explain how overwhelmingly, how _desperately_ , Harley had felt like she’d needed to kiss her.

She _shouldn’t_ tell her – she shouldn’t tell her anything; she doesn’t tell _anyone_ anything – but it’s just as desperate now, just as overwhelming, the need to tell June absolutely _everything_. To rip it all apart and lay it out in front of her and say _here_ , _this is what it is_ – everything, from the moment she met the Joker, the one moment from her other life she’s never been able to forget – to the moment he pushed her out of the helicopter, had kissed her hard, full on the mouth with his hands covered in blood and told her he loved her and how _bad_ she’d wanted it to be true and how _much_ she knows that it isn’t, how much she’s always known, how much she’s never _cared_.

Until now. Until the first month, then the second. Until that echo-y, surround-sound heartbeat had pounded through the speakers this morning.

It _had_ been gravitational. It had changed _everything_ , just not the way Harley had expected it to, the way she’d thought she needed it to. She’d do – _anything_ , anything for the sake of the tiny little human, entirely dependent on her. And it’s – _disturbing_ , to feel that kind of all-consuming, definitive _knowing_ , that she _would_ do anything for it. She’d die for it. She’d almost done exactly that, once; she’s never felt like this for anyone but the Joker, and that’s almost _nothing_ compared to this.

She wants to tell June how much she misses him, how much she still wants him, how much she _hates_ him. About the anger and the jealousy and how _desperately_ she wishes she could remember the _before_. Who _she_ was before. Harleen, who had a future, who could have gone somewhere, who had a career and a life and a family in front of her – compared to Harley, who’s a poison to everything she’s ever cared about it. She even made the _Joker_ worse – she put him through so much fucking _pain_ because of her carelessness, her selfishness.

_It’s like you’re a ghost. It’s like **I’m** the ghost._

She can’t do that again. She wants to tell June she can’t _do it again_ , but she’s afraid she _is_ going to do it again. She wants to tell June how much she thinks about her, all the different ways she thinks about her; Harley wants to tell her how much she likes how dark her eyes are, how she doesn’t get surprised, how there’s always highlighter stains on her hands and she drives with two fingers and she smiles after every joke she makes, just a little bit, how dry her humour is and the way her words lilt, how her voice sounds the way red wine tastes and when her laugh sounds like she’s surprised by it, like she’s consistently caught off guard by her own joy.

Instead, she reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket, fingers closing on a folded up photo she tugs free and flattens out against her thigh. It’s from the ultrasound; the tech had printed it when Harley had said no to a visual recording, to even the audio recording of the heartbeat – and Harley had, immediately, shoved it away, not wanted to look at it, not wanted to think about that all consuming _need_ for the thing inside her, the same desperate want that had spilled out scarlet when she’d jabbed the scalpel into her wrist.

“It’s a girl,” she says, quiet, and then June’s looking at her, eyes wide, lips apart, almost _comical_ in her shock, and Harley almost laughs, almost cries, almost grabs June and _kisses_ her.

And then a deer jumps in front of the car.

Harley shouts. June swerves.

The car rolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback always welcome.
> 
> [Xx.](http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com)


	18. the lock on the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Moore said she’d come. Said she was sending someone.”
> 
> “Who?”
> 
> “She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
> 
> Harley glances at Rick; he’s pulled himself back together, even if his huge form looks ridiculous kneeling in the cramped space of the backseat. “We didn’t have time,” he says, and Harley doesn’t acknowledge it, pulls the last of the dirt she can get at from the back of June’s mouth and presses in to try and breathe for her again.
> 
> She’s not sure how long they’re there for – they trade off once, twice; Rick almost refuses to let her take back over but Harley presses her hands over his against June’s chest and he falters, stops and pulls away to give his arms a break. Regardless, it feels like an eternity before they hear another car pull off the road, and RIck unholsters his gun before he gets out of the car.
> 
> Harley can only pick up on the voices; three of them besides Rick, two women and a man, and there’s the crunching of grass as they get close again. The back door opposite Harley opens, and she almost stops dead.
> 
> “No fucking way."

“ _Fuck_ – June!” Harley shouts, dropping the photo as she throws an arm up in front of her face, the other wrapping tight around her abdomen. June swerves, _hard_ , letting out a cry of her own, and they skid at ninety miles an hour, the car turning a full one-eighty until the back wheels hit the grass at the end of the road and the car is thrown off balance. It rolls, back end turning over into the ditch; again, and again, and again, and again, and –

And Harley is fine. She’s not even moving; she feels like something’s holding her flat to her seat. The travel mug sitting in the console next to her doesn’t come free; her window doesn’t even shatter when it hits the ground.

They roll six times, finally coming to an upside-down stop, and in the heartbeat of absolute _silence_ , Harley sees the bright green light bursting along her skin.

“Holy fuck,” Harley gives, blood rushing to her face but still held, relatively comfortably in her seat. “Jesus fucking – June? Are you okay?”

June’s still in her seat, too; seatbelt in place but not strained, held in place the same as Harley, green sparking over her skin, too. “June?” Harley prompts again, and the girl’s head turns, and it’s _not_ June.

It is June. It’s still the cut of her jaw and the pale pink of her mouth and the over-tired violet under her eyes; but those eyes are burning, _glowing_ , a brighter orange than Harley had seen even in the hospital.

“Harleen Quinzel,” she says, like a greeting – and she _smiles_ , slow and predatory and _teeth_ – and then June’s eyes close, and there’s a noise like a window breaking and Harley gets dropped, seatbelt cutting into her collar as she hangs from her seat.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” June’s head is hanging and her hands drop from the wheel; she’s unconscious, loose against the seatbelt, and Harley bangs a fist against the window. “Help! Fuck – Flag! Helpl” Because there’s no way he didn’t see; the sun had been setting and he’d still been a ways back, but he’d been _following_ them.

Harley can’t wait, though – won’t wait, presses her feet flat to the floor of the car and runs a quick assessment of her body – no broken glass, no broken bones, no nothing, no damage at _all_. It’s impossible – _should_ be impossible, but she’s fine, and reaches one arm, the other still tucked tight around her abdomen, to pull at the keys, turning the engine off and tugging them free.

She drops them and reaches for the ceiling, keeping a foot planted on the floor and letting go of her own body to find the seatbelt. She presses it free, tucking in on herself to land on her side, which – hurts. It hurts, but it’s nothing devastating, though it feels like she’s ripped a stitch in her wrist. She readjusts, sitting up and trying to decide if she can get June down without hurting either of them – she doesn’t think she can, not while June’s unconscious, but stops to rest her fingers against the pulse point in the girl’s neck.

It’s weak, but it’s there, and Harley turns her attention to the passenger door, somewhere between shocked and not surprised at all when it opens easily.

She crawls out, the grass wet and cold with melted snow, and pulls herself to her feet to find the Sedan coming into the ditch, headlights blinding in the beginnings of the dark. Harley stands, stays next to the car to wait until Rick gets out – he practically launches himself from the driver’s seat, gun up as he approaches them.

“What happened? Did you grab the wheel? Get the fuck down on the ground, Quinn – the car was _glowing_ – “ Harley grits her teeth, more than a little pissed off at the accusation, but does as she’s told, dropping to her knees and putting her hands behind her head as Rick comes up.

“I didn’t do _anything_. A deer jumped out in front of us. June swerved – I don’t know,” she shakes her head as Rick comes closer, gun trained on her. “June’s unconscious, but it wasn’t – it wasn’t _June_. It was that fucking witch, Flag. She’s still inside her. Neither of us are hurt, the _car_ isn’t even hurt, fuck,” Harley explains, and there’s a heartbeat of hesitation before she hears Rick holster the gun and she drops her hands, falling forwards back into the grass.

“You are hurt, you’re bleeding,” Rick says, and then he’s kneeling in front of her, fingers hovering over her wrist where her stitches have, in fact, ripped, and there’s blood seeping through the bandage, trailing into her palm. Harley shakes her head.

“No. That happened after – when I undid my seatbelt and dropped. _I_ was glowing – it was like the, thing, was protecting us. It _looked_ at me, it said my name, and then it just – it fucking disappeared, and June was knocked out,” she gestures to the car, dropping from the crawling position to lay on her back and try to catch her breath. “I didn’t want to try and get her out when she was dead weight.”

Rick nods, and then he’s pulling out his cellphone and Harley shoots herself up, hands closing on his wrist and shoving his hand against his chest.

“No. You can’t call an ambulance, or the cops, or backup, or _anything_. If they show up and see everything is _fine_ , the car isn’t even _dented_ , they’re going to start asking questions. Rick, if they know Enchantress still has June they’ll lock her up, they can’t risk her getting loose again.”

It’s the closest they’ve ever been; bodies pressed flush together, Harley can feel Rick’s pulse in his wrist, can see the veins in the whites of his eyes, bright against pupils blown wide. He’s panting, too, and they just _stare_ at each other for a second, and then he’s nodding, pulling his hand from her grip and shoving the phone back in his pocket.

“You’re right. You’re right – but we have to get her out. Help me.”

Harley follows him around the driver’s side of the car, a shiver clattering itself through her spine as the cold seeps into clothes now wet from being in the grass. She grits her teeth, watches Rick hunch and pull the door open.

“June, _baby_ ,” he gives, quiet – under his breath like a reverence, his own kind of Hail Mary. “I’m gonna get in the car, hold onto her, and when I tell you I want you to release the seatbelt,” he says – and being ordered around by Flag is _not_ something Harley’s okay with, but her irritation is overridden by the dark flush of blood in June’s cheeks, the swollen look under her jaw from being upside down.

“Okay,” she agrees, nodding, and drops to her knees next to the car as Rick goes around to the passenger side, crawls inside.

June looks dead. The exhausted, gaunt cuts to her face are exacerbated by the upside-down and the shadows thrown by the setting sun. Anxious, Harley tosses a look over her shoulder, up to the empty highway, looking for cars or someone watching them.

Harley wouldn’t be surprised if this were a trick. If the whole thing was an orchestrated diversion.

She’ll never forgive herself if she gets June killed.

Rick fits an arm around June’s shoulders, the other moving between her back and the seat as he lifts the bulk of her weight. Her neck is still loose, head lolling over Rick’s bicep, and her arms dangle uselessly. He shifts, relieving the pressure of the seatbelt cutting into her thighs, and then he’s nodding at Harley.

“Let her down,” he says, and Harley takes a breath, half moving into the car so she can grab June’s wrists and move her arms, fitting her own against them to hold June’s against her body and keep her from breaking them when she falls. Rick looks at Harley, a little stunned, maybe a little _angry_ , and then his jaw sets and he nods and Harley hits the seatbelt button.

She falls, but not far; Rick presses up and then he’s got her in a bridal carry, and Harley lets go of her arms. He adjusts her, moving to lie her on the roof and then grab her under the arms, crawling backwards out of the car and pulling her with him.

Harley gets up, goes back around the car to meet him as he picks her up again, her head falling limp into the crook of his arm. Harley presses her fingers to June’s pulse point again, holds her breath, _counts_.

“Is she okay?” Rick asks, voice edging desperate, and Harley half-shrugs, starts shaking her head.

“Her pulse is still weak,” she gives, at a loss. They should get her to a hospital, but notifying _anyone_ could be just as likely to get June killed as anything else. They can’t stay here, though; it’s almost completely dark, and it’s _cold_ – but they can’t go home without the car, without _June_ driving. It’ll give them away immediately to the guards waiting for them. “What time is it?” Harley asks Rick, and he _looks_ at her, eyes blanker than she’s ever seen. She locks her jaw, biting on the urge to snap at him, and forces herself to take a breath.

He’s a trained professional – he’s the best of the best; but June is his weak spot.

She gets that. She _has_ to get that. She’s pretty sure June is one of her weak spots, too – and it’s an idle, sick, _disturbing_ thought, the voice in the back of her head that cackle-laughs and quips, _you do have something in common with Soldier Boy_.

“Aren’t we expected back? Aren’t they going to come _looking for us_?” Harley prompts, and Rick’s eyes blow a little wider, the glossy dark clicking into understanding as the gears catch traction again.

“Right,” he gives, and starts walking towards the Sedan. Harley, at a loss, follows. “You’re right, we can’t call an ambulance or the cops, but the Agent who was following you guys earlier in the day – he’s one of my guys, he’s June’s friend, maybe –“

“No,” Harley cuts him off, opening the back door to the car.

“We need help to get the car flipped back over, Harley. I have medical supplies here, but –“

“No,” Harley repeats, shaking her head as she watches him fit June into the backseat. She looks tiny against the black leather seats; too small, too thin, as her limp body fits into the corner of the seat and the back.

“Harley!”  
  
“You remember that thing Moore said about Captain America the other day?” Harley starts, passing Rick to climb into the car, on top of June.

“Harley, what the fuck –“

“She also told me Waller’s not her boss. Call her. I think she’s got more authority than any of us think she does. She can help,” Harley concludes aloud, straddling June’s calves and running her hands flat along the girl’s legs, feeling for the tell-tale warmth of seeping blood. She finds nothing, and tugs at the bottom of the girl’s shirt so she can fit her hands on bare skin, pulling the fabric out of the way so she can see.

“Abdulsattar has training –“

“Have you _met_ Moore? Talked to her for more than thirty seconds? If you don’t think she knows what she’s doing then you’re an idiot. And your buddies _have_ to report to Waller. Moore doesn’t,” Harley snaps, whipping her head around to glare at him. “Fucking _call her_ , Flag.”

He glares back, for a moment; nostrils flaring and jaw set and shoulders back, sharp, full soldier-mode. She rolls her eyes at him, turning back around and pressing her hand against June’s chest, searching for a stronger heartbeat.

“Fuck. Fine, I’m calling her,” Rick gives back. Harley doesn’t respond, pressing her other hand to June’s chest.

“Shit,” she gives, quiet and to herself, pressing up to lean over June’s face, cheek a few inches from her mouth.

She waits, for a moment; forces herself to _focus_ – and there’s nothing, there’s _nothing_. She’s not breathing.

“Fuck, okay –“ Harley breaks off, muttering to herself, pulls her hands out from under June’s shirt and fits the base of her palm to the center of June’s chest, pressing the other to the back of the first hand and locking her fingers together.

She pulls herself a little farther up June’s body, so she’s straddling her hips, and straightens out her arms, elbows locked. “1 – 2 – 3 – 4 –“ she counts the compressions aloud and a shadow blocks in the barely-there moonlight coming in through the open door as Rick looks over her shoulder.

“She’s not breathing?” He asks, stupidly, and Harley shoots another glare of her shoulder as she keeps counting. “Moore – Dr. Moore! It’s Flag. Colonel Rick Flag. The girls got in an accident, Harley’s okay but June’s not breathing, and the witch showed up. The whole fucking _car_ glowed – there’s no damage, we can’t call an ambulance, we can’t explain, they’ll take June away, and Harley thought you-“ he breaks off as Harley hits 23, and she can hear the buzz of a return over the phone.

“Yes ma’am. Yes ma’am. Thank you. Yes. Okay,” Harley half-listens to Rick as she counts over compression 30 and then stops, leaning forward and tilting June’s head back, pinching her nose as she presses in to puff two breaths.

There’s resistance; she can’t exhale properly, and she fits her thumb against June’s bottom lip to pull her mouth open more as she pulls back. There’s something in the back of her throat – dark, Harley can’t see it properly, and swears as she throws a hand back, fingers spread, towards Rick.

“I need a flashlight, Flag,” she gives, and the response is almost immediate. He drops his phone into her hand and she pulls it back, holding it over June’s mouth. “What the fuck?”

“What?”

“She’s got dirt in the back of her throat,” Harley says, readjusting again to hold the flashlight and use the other hand to press fingers into June’s mouth, starting to dig the dirt free.

“Jesus Christ –“ Rick starts, and then he’s climbing into the car and holding his hand out. “I’ll hold the light.”

Harley hands it to him, using her now free hand to tilt June’s head back farther, giving her better access to clear out her mouth.

“Moore said she’d come. Said she was sending someone.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

Harley glances at him; he’s pulled himself back together, even if his huge form looks ridiculous kneeling in the cramped space of the backseat. “We didn’t have time,” he says, and Harley doesn’t acknowledge it, pulls the last of the dirt she can get at from the back of June’s mouth and presses in to try and breathe for her again.

It’s ridiculous – it’s fucking _insane_. She’d wanted to kiss June; really, entirely, desperately, wanted to grab her by the front of the shirt and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe – and then they’d crashed, and now she’s kissing her _because_ she can’t breathe, and she’s doing it half a foot from her fiancé. It’s – not fair. It’s not fair. It’s fucked up and it’s _not fair_.

But it’s working. Air goes in, this time; June’s chest rises once, twice, and then Harley starts compressions again.

She’s not sure how long they’re there for – they trade off once, twice; Rick almost refuses to let her take back over but Harley presses her hands over his against June’s chest and he falters, stops and pulls away to give his arms a break. Regardless, it feels like an eternity before they hear another car pull off the road. Rick puts the phone down on the seat, light up, and unholsters his gun before he gets out of the car.

Harley keeps up the compressions. Her wrist aches, throbs; her arms hurt, and her back hurts, and she’s starting to get nauseous again – but she keeps going, anyway, counting aloud and straining to hear the conversation.

She can only pick up on the voices; three of them besides Rick, two women and a man, and there’s the crunching of grass as they get close again. The back door opposite Harley opens, and she almost stops dead.

“No fucking way,” she gives, feels panic shoot sharp and hot up the back of her neck.

Natasha Romanoff is standing there, in jeans and a long-sleeved tshirt and a ponytail and she’s _suburban_ , and _normal_ , and last time Harley saw her she had a knife to the other woman’s throat.

“Good to see you too, Harley,” Natasha gives, grabbing the handle on the roof to pull herself up, into the car. “She’s still not breathing?”

“No, I’m just breaking her ribs for fucking kicks,” Harley snarls, “It’s _fun_.”

“Did you check for obstructions?”

“Did I check for – Fuck you. I pulled a bunch of dirt out of the back of her throat, I can fill her lungs but she won’t wake up and her body isn’t taking over on its own,” Harley explains, biting on the way she wants to tell the woman to _fuck off_ , get _out_. June is the priority, here. Not Harley’s feelings.

“Dirt?”

“Dirt.”

“Where is the blood coming from?”

Harley hesitates in her response – keeps pushing, keeps counting, but bites hard on her back teeth, then shakes her head. “It’s mine. I ripped my stitches,” she says, and Natasha just _looks_ at her for a moment, then nods.

“Colonel, you said the Enchantress showed up again,” breaks in another voice, the man, and Harley closes her eyes for a half-second of prayer that it’s _not_ who she thinks it is before she looks back, over her shoulder.

It’s exactly who she thinks it is. Clint Barton stands between Flag and Dr. Moore, arms crossed over his chest and brow knit.

“Yeah. The car was glowing – it rolled six times, June was, June is, she’s a crazy driver, she was going way too fast, probably, and they swerved for a deer and hit the grass and – and it rolled six times, bright green. Harley said the Enchantress looked at her, said her name.”

Harley’s turned back to the compressions, stopping as Natasha tilts June’s head back and covers her mouth with her own.

“Harley,” Moore prompts, quiet, and Harley whips her head back around to find the woman standing just outside the door. “Switch off. Let Clint take over. I need to check you for injuries.”

“I’m fine.”

“You _just_ said you tore open your stitches,”

“So what? They’re fucking stitches. It’s been weeks. I’m _fine_ ,” Harley insists, starts compressions again, and Natasha’s hand presses into her shoulder. “Fuck off, Romanoff –“

“We brought an ultrasound machine,” Natasha says, quietly, and Harley falters for a half-second, then shakes her head, full body pressing into June’s chest.

“I almost _died_ , and she was fine. She’s fine now,” Harley insists.

“She?” Moore echoes, and Harley falters again; she’s sweating, it makes her fingers slip against each other, makes her palm slide against June’s chest. “Harley.”

“Okay,” Harley agrees, pulling back, pushing herself out of the car and waiting, watching Clint hop in and take her place. Rick follows, takes up his position holding the light again. Harley lets the doctor pull her away.

“You’re not a medical doctor, you know,” she mutters, glancing over her shoulder, back at the open door, as Moore takes her pulse.

“We all get medical training. You know that,” Moore gives back, and Harley turns to her again, waits for her wrist to be released and then offering the other.

There’s more blood, now – a lot more, the bandaid is coming loose and her hand is stained red; and it had been sore, yes, it had _hurt_ to do the CPR, but it’s not until Moore pulls the bandaid off the rest of the way that Harley sees she’s torn the wound open _completely_ , almost definitely from trying to keep June alive.

“I need to redo these.”

“I’m not leaving June,” Harley says, short, and Moore doesn’t even falter, just nods as she releases Harley’s wrist and reaches into the purse hanging from her shoulder.

“You have to sit down, at least. The back of the car,” she says, and Harley follows her to where she pops open the trunk, half-wonders if they should try moving June to here.

It would be better, but she doesn’t think they should stop the compressions for that long. It had taken them long enough to start.

“What’s the plan, here?” Harley asks as she sits, rests her forearm on the sterile blue cloth Moore pulls from her kit and drapes on Harley’s thigh.

“The others should be here soon. The benefits of technology – barely takes an hour to fly from New York to Louisiana in the Quinjet,” and Harley feels her mouth fall open; comically idiotic, probably, staring at Moore in shock.

“You called the _Avengers_?”

“I called in a favour,” she clarifies, glancing at Harley with her eyebrow arched. “A girl, huh?”

“No. Fuck off, this isn’t a therapy session. June’s _possessed_.”

Harley doesn’t know what kind of resources, what kind of _power_ the woman in front of her has, but she’s somehow got an anaesthetic in a suture kit tucked into her  _purse_ , and Harley grits her teeth as the needle goes in, freezing her forearm.

“We already knew that,” Moore says once she’s done, and she’s threading a needle and they’re in the middle of nowhere and the Black Widow and Hawkeye are in the back of the car and three hours ago she and June were sitting in the mall food court _laughing_ and throwing fries at each other.

She doesn’t understand what happened. She doesn’t understand how she got here.

“We?”

“We,” Moore repeats, looking at Harley as she points a finger between them both. “You never thought she was okay. You made that very clear.”

“I never said _anything_ about the Enchantress.”

“You didn’t have to, Harley. That’s the point.”

“She’s breathing again!” Rick shouts, and Harley turns, moves to put her weight on her good hand and crawl up to the backs of the seats, looking over them. “She’s breathing,” he says again; he’s still crouching next to her, and Clint is sitting back on her thighs. Natasha has her hands on either side of June’s head, tilting it up to keep her airway clear.

“Dr. Moone. Dr. Moone, can you hear us?” Natasha asks, drifts fingers over June’s forehead to brush her hair back. “She’s burning up,” she mutters – more to herself than anything else, Harley thinks; but Clint nods anyway and starts to push himself out of the car.

“I’ll get the stretcher out of the truck, we can start an IV-“

June’s eyes open; just a flutter, first, and then properly.

And they’re blue.

Harley feels her own heart stop, then start again, and she’s reaching over the seat before she even realizes it, searching for her hand.

“ _June_ –“ Rick starts, but the girl’s eyes are wide and on Harley’s and her fingers clamp tight around Harley’s hand the moment she has a grip on it.

“What happened?” June asks, and her voice sounds like someone pulled razors from her lungs. She starts coughing, starts to roll, and Natasha keeps her hands on either side of her head – and her fingers don’t loosen on Harley’s hand as she coughs harder, then vomits.

“Looks like coffee grounds – she’s bleeding internally –“

“No,” Natasha cuts Rick off, shaking her head as June rolls back into the seat. “It’s dirt.”

“Dirt?” June echoes, her eyes closed again. She’s breathing hard, and Harley brushes her thumb over the back of June’s hand, watching her. “How did I swallow dirt?” She asks, breathy and shallow. Her eyes open, just barely; confused, only half-present, they focus for a moment on Harley, and then flick up as Natasha’s fingertips touch her temple again.

Harley watches confusion, then shock, then panic flit across June’s face – in the curve of her mouth and the way her lips part, as she opens her eyes wider, pupils tiny.

“What the fuck?” She asks, staring at Natasha, who she no doubt recognizes, who she can’t connect the dots on. “Who - how?”

The second question is stronger, sharper; June starts to, tries to, sit up as she asks it – and then she’s pulling her hand from Harley’s grip and falling back to the seat, clutching at her chest.

Harley watches her eyes roll back in her head, and June starts _keening_ , a scream through gritted teeth.

“What’s happening?” Rick demands, while Harley’s hand hangs useless at June’s side. June’s writhing, clutching at her chest and coughing, and Natasha fits her fingers against her neck again.

“She’s in cardiac arrest,” Natasha says, and Harley feels her entire body lock up, feels nothing but _panic_ flood through her body. “Moore – I need a defibrillator!” She calls, and some part of Harley registers the movement behind her, but she’s too focused on the amount of pain screwed up in June’s face, on the way she’s digging her nails into her chest, covered in Harley’s blood.

“Fuck, holy fuck –“

“Rick, I need you to get out of the car. Pull her out, we need to get her on the stretcher right now.”

Harley thinks it must be similar for she and Rick, the way the panic dissipates into training, into dealing with the task at hand, into getting through the next ten seconds, because he’s getting out of the car and so is she and then they’re meeting, and Clint’s got the stretcher to them and he and Rick pull June out of the car, and Natasha’s taking the paddles while Moore charges the defibrillator, and –

And somehow, Harley and Rick end up standing next to each other in the dark, watching as Natasha calls ‘clear’ and presses the paddles to June’s chest.

The shock makes her body jump; arch, centred from the paddles, and Rick grabs Harley’s hand.

She almost lets go. It’s immediate – she almost shoves him away; she _wants_ to shove him away.

Except, she doesn’t. Except, he loves June; it’s obvious in everything he does, how in love with her he is, the way he looks at her when she’s not paying attention, the way he does when she _is_. How he exists in orbit around her, like he’s trapped in her gravity.

Harley gets that. She feels stuck, sometimes; she feels stuck right now – she feels desperate and angry and _scared_ , and Rick had made them breakfast this morning, eggs and fruit and he makes her lemon water every day, bought skim milk when he found out Harley prefers it to whole.

So she holds his hand. Tight; her free hand is numbed, but she still brings it up to try and cling to his arm, and then he’s covering the back of her hand with his fingers and they’re shocking June again and Harley, really, genuinely, sincerely feels like she’s dying.

“She’s back,” Natasha announces, handing the paddles back to Moore after checking June’s pulse again, just as the wind picks up and a plane engine enters Harley’s range of hearing.

“Oh my god,” Harley gives, involuntary; it comes out with the exhale she didn’t realize she’d been resisting, and her grip tightens in Rick’s hand. “Oh my god,” she repeats; and it feels like a dam breaking. It feels like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to her chest.

She lets out a sob; a broken, shattered, pathetic thing. “Oh my god,” she says again, and then arms are around her and she’s being pulled against a body and it’s Rick, he’s hugging her – he’s _holding_ her.

And he’s crying, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're mixin' things up. (lolololol). ((that's a crossover joke i think i'm VERY funny)).
> 
> Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> [Xx.](http://greenlig-.tumblr.com)


	19. and my hands are cold

“There she is.”

Moore points at the tiny monitor, fingertip resting against the white image of the baby. As Harley watches, she sees the baby’s hand move, a miniature fist, and tiny legs kick out to readjust.

Harley’s relieved. She’s _absolutely_ relieved – she really hadn’t thought anything was wrong, it hadn’t occurred to her that anything could be, especially since she _was_ fine, in the initial accident. It hadn’t been until Romanoff had told her they’d brought an ultrasound machine that it had clicked at all.

But it's okay; _she’s_ completely okay – a moment later, and the tiny speakers on the back of the monitor blare a tinny heartbeat.

“I told you it was fine,” Harley says, readjusting to fit her hands behind her head. She’s lying in the trunk of the Sedan, monitor by her head as Moore drags the wand along her abdomen, and June’s stretcher is perpendicular to Harley’s feet.

She’s got an IV in; a saline solution to bring her fever down, and there’s a monitor clamped to her forefinger for her pulse, the little screen attached to the side of the stretcher. She has an oxygen tank on over her mouth, and as Harley meets her eyes she reaches up to pull it off.

“I hope the photo is still in the car,” June says, voice still sounding like someone’s rubbed her throat raw with sandpaper, and Harley half-smiles and rolls her eyes.

“I can get another one.”

“Did ya get a recording? Those are cool,” Flag offers from where he’s standing at June’s side, and Harley shakes her head at him, relaxing back flat again.

“No.”

“Just talked to Banner,” comes Romanoff’s voice, and Harley closes her eyes, counting along to the heartbeat as she listens to the woman go on. “He says he thinks the Enchantress must have showed up because your fight or flight took over. Your sympathetic nervous system triggered whatever is left of her in your subconscious. Have you been having nightmares?”

“Yes,” Rick responds for June, and Harley grits her teeth on it, forces herself to keep her mouth shut. She does open her eyes, though, tilting her head so she can see them again.

“Of the Enchantress?” Romanoff continues, looking at June, and June’s eyes flick to Harley once, quick – so fast she almost doesn’t see it, before she pulls the mask from her face again.

“Not specifically. Just – flashbacks. And random stuff. About people dying. About – the Joker.”

Harley feels her whole body lock rigid; like someone’s strapped her to a backboard – it’s suffocating, for a moment.

June is having nightmares about the Joker. It – it _shouldn’t_ be absurd. The Joker is – frightening; a nightmare image to the rest of the world. Even though June’s never actually _met_ him – it makes sense. It _makes sense_.

Except, it feels like it doesn’t.

“She has PTSD,” Rick says, offers like its some kind of explanation, and Harley almost snorts. They _all_ have PTSD. She sees the proof of it in the momentary cut to the corner of Romanoff’s mouth, the not-quite-smile that’s there for only a half second.

Trauma is something their current company understands.

“He thinks the dirt was proof of her presence. She was always – like that, correct? When she would appear, she brought parts of the world she once inhabited with her.”

“Sure, but in her throat? Her stomach? What if it’s in her lungs? Why would the thing – try and _kill_ her, if June’s what’s keeping her alive?” 

“It’s dead. We killed it,” Harley cuts in, pulling one hand from behind her head after Moore wipes the gel from her stomach to pull her shirt back down. Almost immediately, Flag starts shrugging out of his jacket and starts towards her. “I cut its heart out, and Flag crushed it,” she goes on, rolling her eyes as he drapes it over her. June’s already tucked into blankets on the stretcher, and she watches them with some kind of confused-amused look on her face.

“That’s the thing about inter-dimensional demons. They’re hard to get rid of,” Romanoff gives back, tone catching the same lilting-tease it always does, about everything.

It’s infuriating, and Harley wonders if _she’s_ as annoying to talk to on a regular basis.

“Fuck off,” she mutters, readjusting to sit up, keeping Flag’s jacket tucked over her lap. He smells surprisingly good; less like FreedomTM and more like melted caramel. Still, the nausea that’s been drifting in waves since immediately after the accident rises up again as Harley does, and she presses her hand to her mouth, forcing a slow breath through her nose.

A hand rests between her shoulders, warm and wide, and Harley doesn’t quite _understand_ how she’s suddenly a concern of Flag’s – while they were shocking June, sure; he’d needed an immediate comfort, _she’d_ needed an immediate comfort, and they were both – well, _there_. But now, June’s fine – relatively. Harley’s fine – relatively. They’re all _fine_.

Relatively.

Harley spits out the excess saliva in her mouth, lifting her head and forcing another long, slow breath through her nose.

“You gonna hurl?” Flag asks, and she shakes her head, even as she keeps her eyes – and mouth – definitively closed. He hums, his hand leaving her back. There’s a cracking noise, and something cool and plastic is pressed into her hand. “Small sips,” he instructs, and Harley wants to tell _him_ to fuck off, too.

But she’d rather not bring up the lunch she'd foolishly decided to eat that day in front of Romanoff. So she does as she’s told, pressing the plastic lip of the bottle to her mouth and swirling a little bit of the water in her mouth, then spitting that out, too.

“So what do we do? About – the Enchantress, or whatever,” she asks once she feels a little better, looking up to find all eyes on her. She hunches her shoulders against it, and finds the smooth of Flag’s hand equal parts comforting  _and_ annoying, as opposed to how she usually finds, well, everything he does - completely annoying.

At least _he’s_ looking at June, like the rest of them should be.

“For now, we get everyone home without Waller finding out. The others will finish flipping the car, June and I will trade clothes. She can lay in the back seat, I’ll drive, we’ll go in the garage and we’ll get everyone inside,” Romanoff dictates, and Harley’s so fucking _pissed off_ that all the decision making is on – is on the fucking _Avengers_ , for fuck’s sake. It was one thing, for her existence to be in Waller’s hands. At least Harley had some level of – grudging respect, or something like it, for the Devil.

This band of do-gooders is just fucking _irritating_.

“Whatever,” Harley mutters, pressing the bottle back to her mouth to take a little more water. She can feel eyes on her for a moment longer, and then Romanoff walks away.

“I’m sorry,” comes a moment later, cracked and broken and rough, and Harley looks up to find June, oxygen mask pulled from her face again.

 _You looked so small in that hospital bed_.

“I should have been watching the road,” June goes on, and Harley feels her jaw lock, like a gear with a metal bar shoved through it. She shakes her head, a little more than a little pissed off.

“Shutup.”

“Harley –“

“No, shutup. Just – just fucking stop, okay?” Comes out in a rush, surprisingly _loud_ , and Flag’s hand stills against her back, his fingertips digging light between her shoulders. She shrugs him off, pushing herself down from the trunk of the car, to her feet. “I was _distracting_ you. I made you look away. You need to – you need to fucking _stop_ , June, stop apologizing for shit that’s not your fault, okay? Just, fuck, just stop taking responsibility for things that _aren’t on you_.”

It’s public. It’s _very_ public. Flag is watching them, and Moore is _definitely_ watching them – and June is watching Harley, cradling the mask against her chest and looking exhausted, looking _broken_. She blinks, once, slowly, and then brings her free hand up to rub at her eye, pulling her fingers away from her face in surprise.

She blinks again, looking at her fingers, then rubs her knuckles under both her eyes and nods.

“Okay,” she gives, letting her hand fall back to her side. The wire of the IV goes with it, and Harley watches the bag shift.

“Okay,” Harley gives back, and waits until the mask is back over June’s mouth before turning away.

Right into Moore.

Who’s _looking_ at her.

Which is – normal. Which is a completely legitimate thing; except, her brow is knit and her mouth is set and she looks more _serious_ than Harley’s ever seen her and Harley really, really doesn’t like it.

Harley ignores her, pulls Flag’s coat on tight and sidesteps to walk out further into the field and watch them flip the car.

Romanoff is standing a little ways back, next to Barton and Captain _fucking_ America.

And Moore was right – Flag is taller than him.

He’s in street clothes; they all are, jeans and sweaters and Romanoff and Rogers and Barton all have leather jackets on, Romanoff’s wearing gloves and Barton has a scarf tucked around his neck.

The fourth person, however, has stripped herself of most of her outer layers; her jacket – red leather, alongside a black scarf, mitts, and toque – are sitting on the inside of the Sedan while their owner orchestrates one of the most ridiculous things Harley’s ever seen.

June's car is glowing; a persistent ember-red – it’s not sparking the way the green light had been bursting against Harley’s skin; it’s constant, like a net. Scarlet Witch stands a few feet away from the car, hands in the air and fingers bent, turning in the air as she sets the car right-side up, stable on its wheels.

She’s one Harley’s never met before, alongside Rogers. Romanoff and Barton are a different story – they and Tony Stark, whom Harley’s absolutely _relieved_ didn’t tag along, are old playmates. She has a scar in the back of her left thigh from one of Barton’s arrows and has had more bruises than she can count from Romanoff; and there’s a small, barely-noticeable burn on her right ankle from a glared shot from one of Stark’s fire-hand things.

That had _hurt_.

The witch starts back towards the group once the car is set right, and they trade off with her; heading forwards, Harley assumes, to double-check that there’s no damage to it.

That leaves her alone, waiting, watching as the witch approaches her, and the first thing Harley notices is how _young_ she is.

She can’t even be nineteen, Harley’s sure. She’s thin, willowy; her clothes accentuate it, hanging loose and long from her frame in shades of grey and red. Harley can see the glint of rings on her fingers, of metal in her ears under a bun held in place with a pen. As she gets closer, she lets it down; it falls in a dark curtain, long enough to reach her waist – and then she’s close enough to hold out her hand to Harley.

“Wanda Maximoff,” she offers, and Harley flicks her eyes between the girl’s face – open, if not smiling – and her hand a few times before taking it, shaking it.

“Harley Quinn,” she gives back, and the girl smiles, just a little bit.

“You are quite famous, Harley. Even where I am from,” Wanda replies; her accent is present in her over-pronunciation and the waves of her words, but it’s oddly – hypnotic. Musical, almost; it’s relaxing, and Harley blinks against the mesmerization of it.

“You’re not exactly unknown yourself,” is her rebuttal, dropping Wanda’s hand, and the girl smiles a little wider.

“I suppose I will need to get used to that,” Wanda says, and then she’s walking past Harley and to the car, tucking her arms to her chest.

Harley follows, only because there’s nothing else to do, and watches the girl shrug back into her coat, watches her watch Flag and June a few feet away, talking to Moore.

“I can feel her,” Wanda says suddenly, wrapping her scarf back around her neck. “Dr. Moone. I can feel the magic.”

Harley takes a breath, tucking her own arms to her chest. She kicks, idle, at the dark grass.

“Can you tell us how to get rid of it?”

When Harley looks up again, Wanda’s looking at her with eyes rimmed a burning red-pink. She shakes her head.

“I do not think you want to do that,” she says, and smiles, and then starts over to the little group. Harley listens to the introductions – stands to the side, tucked in on herself, watching.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” She mutters to herself, leaning against the car. Does Wanda think Harley _wants_ the Enchantress back?

 _Does_ Harley want the Enchantress back?

She has, in moments. In moments of boredom, in moments of – anger. The thing, the witch, is terrifying – _horrifying_ , in a way Harley isn’t familiar with. The mundane fear of day-to-day life, of all the terrible things that happen every second, every hour, are things Harley’s well acquainted with. They’re evils Harley’s perpetuated on her own time – Harley is one of the things people are _afraid of_ , on a day-to-day basis. She’s a mundane terror. She’s altered, different; a little more resilient, a little bit stronger.

But she’s still human.

The Enchantress is – not. Not even close, not even kind of. She’s a representation of all the things humans are unable to comprehend within the working universe – things humans haven’t come to learn in the millennia since the witch last walked the earth, things they probably never will. She’s an unknown; a mystery of the way all the things humanity will never be able to explain or understand coexists with the day-to-day fears, the every-moment terrors.

But June – June is very, incredibly, _entirely_ human. She’s fallible, she’s fragile.

And her body, very obviously, can’t handle the intrusion, the possession; her body is _human_.

Harley thinks the witch is interesting; every bone in her body wants to know, wants to learn and understand. There’s so much knowledge, there – there’s so much explanation, answers to the questions the world doesn’t even know enough to ask.

Harley thinks June is interesting; every bone in her body wants to know, wants to learn and understand. She’s an entire life; she’s an entire history – she’s nearly three decades of living, and Harley wants to get the chance to learn the right questions to ask.

Maybe it’s selfish; but Harley’s always been selfish. Self-motivated. That’s what got her here, after all.

That’s what got her locked in a tiny room with the Joker in Arkham Asylum.

“Ready to strip?” Romanoff comes up beside Harley, starting to tug her arms free of her jacket and half-smiling as she directs the question at June, who nods without pulling the mask free. Rick takes the handles of the stretcher at June’s head and pulls it across the wet grass, so the side is flat against the back of the car, and starts to gather the corners of the sheets in her hands. June reaches up and stops him.

“I can move myself,” she says, pulling the mask free and setting it on the sheets. She presses one hand flat to the floor of the trunk, the other to the stretcher, and starts to slide herself into the car. Flag’s hands hover the air around her, like he’s waiting for her to fall, but she manages to get herself in, and then Romanoff pulls the pole holding the oxygen tank and the IV bag free of the stretcher, setting it inside the trunk and leaning it against the wall of the car.

It’s only a half-second, only a heartbeat; Harley barely catches it – but June looks at her, a little desperate, a little scared, a little like she’s looking for _help_ – and then Harley starts forward, lets her arms drop from where she’ got them X’ed across her chest and crawls into the trunk.

“I’ll help her,” she says – and Flag nods, nods like he’s not surprised, nods like he approves, reaching to curve one hand over the back door of the car. Romanoff tosses them a pile of black clothing, and then Flag shuts the door, and they’re alone inside tinted windows.

She snorts, shaking her head as she pulls apart the pile of clothes; sweatpants, a tshirt, a sweater – all black, all soft.

“Shirt or pants first?” Harley asks, and when she looks up June’s holding the mask over her face, watching her.

“Pants,” she answers finally, adjusting the straps of her mask so her hands are free. She reaches for the zipper of her jeans, leaning back against the wall of the car, and Harley watches her wince, teeth gritting as she tries to maneuver her hips to get the pants off.

“Here, wait –“ Harley stops her, hands hovering over June’s until she lets go. “Put your hands on the ground, lift yourself up,” she instructs, and asks, “Does it hurt?”

June shrugs. “We were in a car accident.”

“That’s not why you’re hurt,” Harley says, fingers hooking into June’s belt loops as June lifts herself from the ground and starting to tug her jeans down her thighs.

A cluster of black lines is revealed; from June’s hip, halfway down the side of her thigh and spreading. Harley pauses as she reaches the middle of June’s calf, gesturing to the etchings.

One question answered, she supposes.

“What is all this?”

“Tattoos,” June gives back, and smirks behind her mask when Harley glares at her. “Sacred geometry.”

When Harley doesn’t respond, raises an eyebrow at her even as she continues pulling the jeans past June’s ankles, freeing her feet, June takes the mask off and goes on. “It’s like – code pieces to the way the universe was created. Could have been created. We find it all throughout nature, and in manmade structures, even ruins millennia old. It’s –“

“Nerdy,” Harley finishes, pressing her lips into a line to try and hide her smile. June does nothing to hide hers, breaks wide and real across her face.

“I was going to say magic,” she returns, and Harley shrugs.

“When did you get them?”

“I started it after I got my degree, and kept adding to it until –“ she breaks off, shakes her head. “I haven’t gotten a new one in a little over a year,” she explains, and Harley nods.

“Did you learn about it during your doctorate?” She asks, and June shakes her head, attention on the pulse monitor as she unclips it from her hand so they can get her shirt off.

“Well, kind of. Not my doctorate. I did my undergrad degree on the Occult,” she explains, and Harley freezes where she’s angling June’s foot into the sweatpants.

“I know,” June starts, waves a hand like dismissal, “The irony is not lost on me.”

Harley scoffs, a burst of derisive laughter, and shakes her head. “I didn’t even know that was a _thing_.”

“I grew up with it. My dad –“ June breaks off, shaking her head as she bends her knees to let Harley get the sweatpants up. She presses her hands to the floor again, wincing a little as she lifts herself. “Sometimes I wonder if I did this to myself. If I invited it – influenced things, somehow, by playing with stuff I don’t understand,” she says quietly, voice still breathy and scratched, as Harley gets the pants up to her hips. They’re close, now; June’s legs are parted to let Harley move and now Harley’s on her knees between the girl’s thighs, and she can smell the toothpaste on June’s breath – she’d insisted on it, knew Rick had some in the Sedan, once she’d been conscious enough to have an opinion again.

“If you only deigned to involve yourself with things you understood, you’d never do anything worth doing,” Harley tells her, and she’s not sure _why_ she says it – except, maybe June’s struck a chord. Messing with things she has no concept of because of arrogance, overconfidence; getting herself in trouble because she’s always been too smart for her own good. Putting _other_ people in danger because of her blind insistence that she could keep things under control.

Harley gets that. Harley’s lived that. She’s _been_ living that for what feels like decades, centuries, even if it’s only been a few years, even if she’s only been – _this_ , for a few years.

“This might hurt,” Harley says quietly, and curves her hand over June’s arm, thumb pressing the needle to keep it still as she plugs the line, then tugs it free of the needle, letting the closed line drop away. Harley starts to gather the bottom of June’s shirt in her hands – she probably doesn’t need the help, here, but Harley doesn’t want her to hurt herself anymore, and she’s _there_ , and – and, well, she doesn’t want to move away from her.

June’s hands fall over hers; warm, fingers wrapping around the backs of her hands, fingertips pressing into the edges of her palm.

“You sound like you really believe that,” she says, searching Harley’s face like it has some kind of answer to a question neither of them ever asked. Harley lets her hands relax in June’s, nods.

“I do,” Harley mutters, and as much as she’s hoping for it, _wanting_ it – she’s not surprised when June’s hands drop away from hers, back to the floor, and she leans back a little bit, so Harley can’t see the fracturings of green under the sea-blue of her eyes anymore.

She’s kind of relieved, actually. She’s not sure what she would do if she had to confront June almost dying and June wanting her _back_ all in the same day.

“I think she’s afraid of you,” June says suddenly, and Harley pauses with the shirt halfway up the girl’s ribcage.

“She? Romanoff? I wouldn’t call it _afraid_ –“

“No,” June interrupts, shaking her head. “Though I do want to hear that story, eventually. The witch. She – I see everything, feel everything she does. She’s afraid of you, but – but she wants you alive.”

June’s brow knits as she explains, her eyes falling from Harley’s to look past her, off at something Harley can’t see.

“Are you sure that’s not how _you_ feel?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” June qualifies immediately, shaking her head. “I’m not,” she insists, and then goes on, “But I’m afraid of her.”

“Take off your mask, arms up,” Harley gives instead of responding, waiting for June to do as she’s told before she tugs the shirt up the rest of the way, leaving June in her bra and underwear. “Did you – know? That she was still there?” She asks, pulling the tshirt from the pile of clothes and offering it out to June, who lets Harley pull it over her head.

Harley can’t tell if June’s allowing this degree of help because she actually _wants_ it, or because she’s in that much pain. She’s not sure what to make of the former – and the idea of the latter _scares_ Harley, makes her chest feel tight and hurt. She doesn’t want June to be in pain.

“I don’t know,” June says, shaking her head as she adjusts the shirt. “I guess – maybe. Kind of. I – I suspected. I could feel her, sometimes, but I wondered if it was an imprint. Some sort of leftover – energy, or something,” she rambles through the explanation, shaking her head again and then looking up at Harley. “Did you?”

Harley shrugs, helping June get one foot in the sweats, then the other. “You don’t go somewhere that dark and come out clean,” she says, catching the elastic between fingers and thumb and pulling it up to June’s knees. June’s hands press into the ground again, and she winces – more than before; a grimace, as she lifts herself. Harley covers the tattoo up, pulling the sweats up to June’s waist. “And I’ve seen your eyes – the hospital –"

“Yeah,” June cuts, nodding. Her voice is thinning, noticeably, the longer she has the mask off, and Harley grabs the sweater and holds it out to her.

“You might be able to learn to control it. The kid _they’ve_ got with them, she’s – she has powers, but she can control them. It’s different, probably, but you might be able to learn,” Harley gives, watching June pull the sweater past her head and tug the collar loose around her neck. She brings the mask up immediately, waiting for June’s hand to clamp over the back of hers and bring it to her mouth. They both hold it in place, handclasped, while June adjusts the straps over her ears.

“Maybe,” June manages, nodding. “I’ll – have to. The effect… I could always – feel, her, before. Taste her. Like metal. And dirt,” she goes on, and Harley fights her grimace at how hard June's breathing for the words, even with the mask on; practically having to fill her lungs for every syllable.

“Stop trying to talk,” Harley gives, catching June’s wrist and holding her arm out. She rolls the sleeve up, careful not to catch the fabric on the needle as she folds it to June’s bicep. June nods, relaxing back against the window, and lets her arm go lax in the support of Harley’s hand. Harley presses her thumb against the needle in June’s arm again, holding it still while she plugs the IV back in. It takes a second, and she hears June’s sharp inhale when the needle shifts, just a little bit, but she gets it and opens the plug on the line. “Okay,” she gives, sitting back on her feet and dropping her hands to her thighs. “Ready?”

June looks at her, expression muddled by the mask on her face, and for a half-moment Harley thinks – hopes, maybe – that she’s going to shake her head, say no. That they’ll be able to keep the door shut and the outside on the outside, where it belongs; Rick, and Moore, and Moore’s fucking _god-squad_ , and – and the witch. The Joker.

Because Harley’s _tired_ – she’s as tired as she thinks she’s ever been, and she just wants to sit here in the quiet with June.

“Ready,” June agrees finally, nodding, and Harley does it like ripping off a bandaid, bangs her fist against the back window before she can even take a breath.

Rick opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i keep trying to give myself a consistent schedule for updates. obviously, that's not working, but i'm trying to stay as on top of it as possible! i can't wait to finish the rest of this story with you guys. (i can't wait for june and harley to GET OVER THEMSELVES)
> 
> 2\. i know the avengers and suicide squad are not the same universe. THINGS are going to HAPPEN.
> 
> 3\. i love all your comments. i know i don't respond that often but i read every single one, with total and absolute joy. it's the best motivation ever to hear from you guys. please keep up the feedback! and thank you for sticking with me and these two idiots.
> 
> 4\. http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com


	20. from a dissipating line we drew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay. No one is here, no one can hear you – tell me the truth. How much are you actually hurting?” Harley asks, dropping her voice a tone and leaning into the car.
> 
> June shrugs.
> 
> Harley hates that she’s endeared by it.
> 
> “June.”
> 
> Harley feels like she’s scolding June – which, really, she is. But it feels normal; automatic, easy – which feels wrong – and June rolls her eyes.
> 
> “I feel like someone came after me with a baseball bat,” June says finally, quietly, her back tense and one fist curled up on the seat. “A metal baseball bat. Hard,” she clarifies, and Harley’s brow knits, looking at the other girl – the determined lock in her jaw, the way June isn’t looking at her and her hand, fingers curled so tight into her palm that the knuckles are white.
> 
> “Okay,” Harley says, and reaches for June’s hand, definitively letting hers fall over it. June’s eyes snap to hers; wide, and she’s pale with pain, and Harley tugs. “I’ll help you walk, then we’ll see what kind of fun military grade painkillers Flag has.”

Harley’s heart is in her throat the whole ride home; she keeps waiting for something, anything, to go wrong; for them to be pulled over, for Romanoff to spin out – for June’s phone to light up with a call from her mother, her sister – from _Waller_ , asking why they aren’t home yet.

Nothing happens. No one calls, no one comes; June rides strapped flat in the backseat to keep her from being seen and after Romanoff snaps at Harley for looking back at her too much, Harley instead fits a hand between the seat and the console, within reach of June. 

Once, June’s fingers brush against the inside of Harley’s palm – then again, just before they turn onto June’s street. Harley pulls her hand back, then, intent on keeping the situation a secret from the guards outside June’s house. She shifts, wishing she could pull her knees up to her chest, legs in front of her torso like a shield – but doesn’t, keeps her feet flat on the floor of the car and holds nonchalance in her shoulders as they pull into the garage; lies, easily, but not quite as easily as she once may have – like a muscle that’s still there, but hasn’t been stretched in a long time.

“Stay here,” Natasha mutters, not looking up to see if she’s being obeyed before she gets out of the car.

Harley aches, for a moment – it’s sudden and quick; for just a second she feels overwhelmingly helpless. Scared. _Angry_.

“What’s she doing?” June asks, and Harley does her best to keep her expression neutral, to keep the tension out of her body language. The windows are relatively well-tinted for a civilian’s car, though she supposes June really _isn’t_ a civilian, even on her best days. Either way, Harley doesn’t want to draw any attention to them; she doesn’t know where the cameras are in the garage, she’s never even been _in_ the garage.

“Stay there,” Harley mutters, moving a hand in front of her face to cover her mouth. “Stay down. She’s breaking into the camera system to replace the live feed for the night, so they don’t see anything,” Harley explains, sure of herself despite the details of the plan never having been shared with her.

It’s what she would do, anyway – and sure enough, Romanoff successfully breaks into a control panel on the left wall, revealing a collection of wires and a tiny black and white screen. Flag must have told her where it was.

It’s a couple minutes before she comes back. Harley picks at her nails, then inspects the car as leisurely as she can, eventually finding the dropped ultrasound photo wedged between the seatbelt of the driver’s seat and the console.

“Found it, you can stop apologizing,” she says quietly, and presses her lips together in a smile when she hears a soft _what?_ and the other girl trying to move. “June, stay. Don’t move. You can look later.”

“You can look now,” Natasha says, opening the drive’s side door. “Cameras are fixed, I’m gonna go get Flag,” and then she’s gone, and Harley hates that she’s envious of the other’s – _confidence_. The way she _knows_ she’ll be listened to.

Harley presses out of the car immediately, opening the backseat passenger door to find June looking at her upside down, her head tilted back on the seat.

“I want to walk,” she says immediately, and Harley rolls her eyes, picking up the oxygen mask from where June had dropped it at her side as her breathing had improved on the ride.

“Better take a couple hits then,” she says, and June’s expression cuts into something adorably grumpy, but she does it anyway. She keeps her head tilted back, though, eyebrows raised at Harley as she takes a long, slow breath.

It takes Harley a second, and she laughs, smiling as she hands the photo off to June’s eager hands.

It still doesn’t really mean anything to Harley; it’s just a black and white photo she can barely connect to herself – it was one thing to see it moving on the screen; another, maybe, to hear proof of it being, like, _alive_ – and to see the physical proof in the bend of her own body, even.

But she’s glad June likes it. She takes the photo from Harley and holds it up and then she’s smiling, grinning into the mask, and – oh, God.

Harley is so _fucked_.

She’s _fucked_ – June is engaged. June is _possessed_. Most importantly, June cares about an ultrasound photo of a baby that’s not _hers_.

And Harley – Harley wants to keep it alive, sure. She wants to keep it safe. She thinks – _knows_ – that she’d die to do those things. But that’s biology. That’s hormones and a millennia of evolution intended to guarantee the survival of the human race.

It doesn’t mean she _loves_ it.

Not like she’s supposed to, anyway; not like a mother _should_ love their child.

She doesn’t love the Joker like she should, either – the fast, infatuated, all-consuming _rush_ she feels about him is not normal. It’s not how it’s _supposed_ to be.

That’s the thing, about Harley. She doesn’t _feel_ things like she should. She doesn’t love right.

But June – well.

Harley’s pretty sure she could love June – who’s smiling at her as she tilts her head back again, mask still clutched to her face. She holds the photo out, trying to give it back.

She’s beautiful, and she’s intelligent, and she’s sweet – without being overbearing or _too_ sweet, cavity sweet – she’s dry-humoured and sharp-witted, impulsive, she’s _ambitious_.

And she cares about Harley.

“Keep it,” Harley says, offering a single-shouldered shrug. “It’s just like – a blob, to me. You actually know what you’re looking at,” and June’s brow knits, and she frowns like she’s sad for Harley.

“Sit up?” Harley says, asks, trying to move them along before June can start asking questions – and the photo gets folded into June’s pocket, and she nods, taking the mask off again.

Harley does her best not to hover – she watches, as June adjusts, as her hands press into the seat and she pulls, then pushes, herself into a sitting position.

Her face is screwed up in pain the whole time.

“Okay. No one is here, no one can hear you – tell me the truth. How much are you _actually_ hurting?” Harley asks, dropping her voice a tone and leaning into the car.

June shrugs.

Harley hates that she’s endeared by it.

“June.”

She feels like she’s scolding her – which, really, she is. But it feels normal; automatic, easy – which feels _wrong_ – and June rolls her eyes.

“I feel like someone came after me with a baseball bat,” she says finally, quietly, her back tense and one fist curled up on the seat. “A metal baseball bat. _Hard_ ,” she clarifies, and Harley’s brow knits, looking at the other girl – the determined lock in her jaw, the way June _isn’t_ looking at her and her hand, fingers curled so tight into her palm that the knuckles are white.

“Okay,” Harley says, and reaches for June’s hand, definitively letting hers fall over it. June’s eyes snap to hers; wide, and she’s pale with pain, and Harley tugs. “I’ll help you walk, then we’ll see what kind of fun military grade painkillers Flag has.”

June snorts, sliding across the seat and following Harley’s direction with her hand, letting her arm drape across Harley’s shoulders for support. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him take an Advil.”

Harley’s trying not to think about the last time they were this close – about the fact that Harley could have killed June. She could’ve done – a lot of things. She’s trying not to think about how _angry_ she was, or how _bad_ she wanted June. She knows – she _knows_ , she lets herself get overwhelmed, infatuated  

“Romanoff, then. Or we’ll just get you really, _really_ drunk,” Harley tell her, and then she’s fitting an arm around June’s waist and June can’t talk anymore, is practically hyperventilating just trying to walk across the garage.

Harley’s pretty sure she could carry her. Like, yeah, she’s out of shape and has a constant dull throb in all her pulse points – but she’s still pretty sure she could carry June, at least up the stairs to the door.

But _June_ wants to _walk_ – so Harley doesn’t, doesn’t even offer, and they get the door open and then there’s Flag standing dumbfounded and directly in their way.

“I was about to come get you,” he says, blinking in bewilderment, and Harley feels June’s weight shift against her.

“I need to sit down,” she says, and one hand goes out in a staying motion as Rick reaches for her. “I can walk,” she says, which Harley thinks is now a debatable statement, if the amount of body weight she’s got tucked against her side is any sign.

Regardless, she doesn’t really _want_ to give June over to Flag, so she tightens her grip on June’s waist and supports her as they start forward again.

“The blind leading the blind,” she mutters under her breath, and June snorts. Harley smirks, but doesn’t say anything else.

“My room,” June tells her – which, Harley thinks, _knows_ , is completely logical; she has serious doubts about June’s ability to get back up again once she’s sitting down. But that doesn’t make her skin crawl any less at the idea of being anywhere near the space June shares with Flag – anywhere near the _bed they fuck in_.

The feeling of intrusion, of fierce not-belonging that had overwhelmed Harley when June had brought her home hasn’t gone away, but it’s become less aggressive. She still feels abruptly aware of how not-her-space it all is, but it’s become less intense. She’s – still on edge, still _angry_ , but if Harley weren’t adaptable then she wouldn’t be alive.

She can deal with things. Well, she can _suppress_ things.

This – this is more difficult to suppress.

It’s not fancy, or anything – in fact it’s definitively _not_ fancy. It’s domestic, it’s _homey_.

The walls are a pale storm-grey, different from the rest of the house; not as bright as the green – and all the furniture is dark oak. It makes the room look bigger than it is, and gives it a cool, stable kind of atmosphere. The dresser, against the wall perpendicular to the door, is massive and obviously for two people – and covered in personal effects. The side Harley assumes must be Flag’s has a change jar and a photo frame; Rick, looking at least ten years younger than he is now, standing between a man that could _also_ be Rick, but in his sixties, and a shorter, grey-haired woman with a confident smile Harley doesn’t trust. There’s nothing inherently _threatening_ about her – just, she looks like the sort of woman to try and feed you. She looks like every classic grandmother, a caricature you’d find in a children’s story, and Harley has to look away, at the glasses’ case and Rubbermaid bin of unmatched socks instead.

Harley thinks that makes sense. The idea that Flag is a stickler for matching his socks; he probably has a night time and day time skincare routine and keeps track of how much water he drinks in a day and has a different pair of underwear for everyday of the week. It’s a persona that fits with his protein shakes and collection of herbal teas. And, y’know, the flagpole up his ass.

June’s side is – not a mess, but considerably less organized; the same kind of easily quantified chaos as her desk. There are some pens here, too; a highlighter and a pad of sticky notes and, oddly enough, a staple remover – but Harley supposes she _gets_ it. She used to wake up snuggled up with her stationary and textbooks – probably absorbed the same amount of information by virtue of osmosis over actual studying.

She kind of misses it, for a half moment. The memory is abruptly clear; the early-morning sounds of an apartment full of girls and not enough space starting to wake up, the sharp smell of coffee and citrus soaps. For a second, she can hear their voices; not quite clear enough to understand what they’re saying; but present, nonetheless. Normal. Comforting.

In the memory, she curls tighter into her sheets, replacing the buzz of her alarm with the quiet, kind morning noises of her roommates. She pulls her pillow to her chest, refusing to move even when she hears her bedroom door open.

“ _Good luck,”_ someone says; teasing, warm – and there’s a return laugh and then a dip in the mattress, weight as someone crawls up to fall behind her. A warm arm drapes her body, and fingers brush the back of her neck to pull her hair away. The tip of a nose touches the base of her skull, and then there’s the soft press of lips, and Harley groans as she presses back into it.

_“You fell asleep studying again.”_

_“I’m dedicated.”_

_“You’re working too hard.”_

“Harley?” June is leaning almost full-body against Harley, who’s as good as frozen in the middle of the room. “You okay?” Which is – stupid, it’s a stupid question, cause June sounds like she’s got a _death rattle_ in her throat and her entire body weight is against Harley and Harley’s just, _standing_ there, and June’s the one who’s not okay.

“I’m fine,” Harley says, helping June the last couple steps to the bed and shoving the thought, the memory, away, releasing her waist to let her drop flat back against the bed.

“Are – you – sure?” She manages; stronger than it had been when she was standing, but Harley rolls her eyes, bringing her hand up to put a finger to her lips.

“I’m fine, June. Use your air to, y’know, breathe,” she gives, trying to sound flippant but afraid she sounds – shaky, disconnected, wrong; in other words, exactly how she _feels_.

June’s too busy trying not to asphyxiate on – well, nothing; or maybe dirt, Harley wouldn’t be _surprised_ , exactly, if she’d aspirated some of it – to notice, anyway. Or at the very least, to comment; she eyes Harley – not a particularly threatening sort of expression when the person it’s coming from is lying at such an angle that they have to tuck their head into a double chin to aim it at her properly – and Harley shrugs.

“That looks comfy.”

“Shutup.”

“Glad to see you two are getting along again,” Rick says from the doorway, making Harley jump.

Which is – _annoying_. It’s more than annoying. _She’s_ supposed to be the most vigilant, most aware, of the three of them – _she’s_ the infamous criminal, after all. But June doesn’t jump at anything because she’s, apparently, too damaged to have a functional sympathetic nervous system anymore – and Rick’s had all his normal human responses trained out of him by way of pushups and protein shakes. So fuck them.

“Fuck you,” Harley mutters, forcing herself to take a slow breath and pressing a hand over her eyes. It takes a moment to process the observation; she supposes it probably shouldn’t _surprise_ her that she and June’s definitive need to completely avoid each other was _obvious_ to someone else – someone that they live with, especially when Harley (and June, probably) is under surveillance.

Doesn’t mean she _likes_ Rick being aware enough to comment on her behaviour. Even if they’re probably supposed to be some kind of friends now, or something. Crying together is supposed to have that effect on people; it’s supposed to be bonding.

Harley’s mostly just annoyed with herself for ‘bonding’ with Rick – like a baby duck that imprinted on the wrong mother. It’s _irritating_.

“June, you wanna take a shower babe?” Rick asks as he comes around the bed, offering June the oxygen mask. She shakes her head as she takes it from, pressing it over her nose and mouth and letting her eyes close. “Darlin’, you’re covered in blood,” he says, softly persuasive. June, apparently having reverted to toddler-based communication in the wake of near-death, shakes her head again, groaning into the mask.

“A bath?”

Again, June shakes her head. She doesn’t even open her eyes, instead draping her arm over her face.

“Honey, I’ll help ya. You don’t wanna sleep like this.”

“Sleep is the only thing she wants,” Harley says, thinking of June’s description – _like someone came after me with a baseball bat, hard_ – and how hot water would, yes, probably help, but no matter how gentle Flag is, getting up is it’s going to _hurt_. “Just, get a warm wash cloth,” Harley suggests, and Flag arches an eyebrow at her, then looks at June, who’s still got an arm draped over her eyes. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Harley nods as he starts getting up, figuring that’s going to be the cue to help June get undressed and subsequently, her cue to leave. “Harley, wait. I think we’re gonna need help,” he gives as she starts to get up, and Harley half-turns back, arching an incredulous eyebrow at him.

“Seriously?”

“Well, Romanoff’s gonna have to stay over night, so I can take her to Belle Reve with me in the morning. She’s gonna have to sleep in your room, and ya shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch, so –“

“No way.”

“Quinn –“

“You want me to sleep – with _you guys_?” Harley asks, definitely not needing the confirmation but just – _exasperated_ , by the idea, by Flag’s absolute hard-headed _obliviousness_. Looking half-guilty, he shrugs, and June pulls her arm from her face to reveal what Harley feels must be an expression extremely similar to hers; surprise, guilt, a little bit of horror. “I’ll just crash on the couch. My back’s had worse.”

“Harley, you were in a car accident today. I know you’re fine but you’re probably still gonna be sore. Sleep in the bed,” Rick insists, and it would be comical if it weren’t such an absurd, parallel-dimension-situation; his expression, a little bit pleading from where he’s crouching next to June and the bed; and June, still holding the mask hard against her face and flicking wide eyes between Rick and Harley.

It feels like the closest Harley’s gotten to a confession. Which is – _not_ reassuring. It’s frightening. It’s kind of fucked up. It’s _incredibly_ fucked up.

“’Sides, I can keep an eye on ya both better if you’re in one place,” Rick adds, which is – _what?_ Harley – gets it, kind of. Or, she figures she does; he considers Harley his responsibility as much as he considers June his responsibility because he’s a good, old-fashioned valued cowboy-soldier. Duty and honour define like, ninety percent of his personality.

Harley hates that she finds it, and the drift of stubble across high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, _charming_.

“So what, you’re gonna sit up all night in front of the bedroom door with a shotgun?”

Rick shrugs, and June, still mute and basically helpless, brings a hand up to pinch her nose between thumb and forefinger.

“More like an MP5.”

“You have a German submachine gun in your _suburban home_?”

“Well, where do ya keep yours?”

“ _Why_? We’re – fine, everything is fine.”

“You really believe that?”

“Mom – Dad – stop fighting,” comes broken and breathless from between them, and Harley lets her hands drop out of her mimed exasperation to set on her hips as she looks from Rick, down to June, who’s got her mask pulled down to her chin and looks _extra_ pale, even by Harley’s standards. “Hostage strategy,” she says, directed at Harley, and then presses the mask back over her mouth.

Harley arches an eyebrow at her. 

It’s – an easy, definitive way of explaining things. Not that Harley didn’t already _get it_ , cause she did, but – hostage strategy. Keep the valuables behind as many barriers as possible; Harley’s bedroom _door_ isn’t closer to the front door, but its west wall juts out into the living room, directly across from the main entrance; June and Rick’s bedroom is behind the kitchen, and their door is probably better constructed about _outside_ attacks, as opposed to Harley’s – which is meant to keep her _in_.

“So you think this was planned, then?” Harley asks, flicking her eyes back up from June to Rick, who’s now standing.

“No. A deer jumped out in front of ya at dusk on a back-country highway. That’s not sinister, that’s a Tuesday. But June’s heart stopped, and you’re more than a minor precious commodity, so until we’re _sure_ there’s nothing going on _besides_ that, I’m gonna have a machine gun on hand,” Rick explains, and Harley – _hates_ , that it makes sense. That she agrees. That if she weren’t so caught up in how uncomfortable she is, she would have reached the same conclusion much quicker than he had – she hates how _uncomfortable_ she is; that she’s letting, anything, _anything_ , impede her judgement at this point.

It’s just a bad survival tactic.

“It’s Wednesday,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. June snorts, a ridiculous sound echoed inside the soft-silicone confine of the mask.

“What?”

“You said it’s a Tuesday. It’s Wednesday,” Harley repeats, tucking her arms tighter to herself as she looks at Flag. Finally, he breaks into a smile, chuckling as he shakes his head.

“Quinn, you’re an institution. I’m gonna get a cloth, can you help June get undressed?” He asks, heading for the ensuite before he gets a response, and Harley finally looks back down at June, who has her eyes closed.

“I can un – undress – myself,” June says, slowly, into the mask – without ever opening her eyes. Harley rolls her eyes, shaking her head and letting her arms drop from across her chest – cause, _yeah_ , she’s, well – uncomfortable, _too_ comfortable, whatever you want to call it, _too_. But June can’t even finish a sentence.

“Arms up,” Harley says, pressing her knees into the mattress and coming up it to stop at June’s hip; the position an odd mimicry of where they were this morning. June keeps her eyes closed, stubborn and childish – traits Harley is learning are _key_ aspects of June’s personality.

“Harley –“

“Don’t care, arms up,” Harley insists, because this _would_ be the time June tried to have some kind of – _conversation_ , with her, or something. She’s one for moments or whatever; but it’s taking her ten minutes to get one sentence out, and Rick is in the room over and about to come back and Harley saw her _die_ today, so –

She’s had enough. Emotionally, she’s had enough.

June, for once in the short period Harley’s known her, does as she’s told. She fits the strap of the mask back over her ears and presses her palms to the mattress and pushes herself into a sitting position. Her shoulders hunch, body bent in on itself in exhaustion as it tries to find the best way to balance with the most minor exertion of energy – and then takes a final, long pull from the mask, and takes it off.

Harley curls her fingers into the bottom of the shirt; black, it doesn’t give away the blood or dirt the way the one Harley’d helped her out of earlier did, but Harley can still feel the stiff stickiness. If nothing else, it’s a relief to know that it’s not coming from _June_ , though Harley doesn’t exactly _like_ the look of her own blood staining June’s skin.

It feels too much like a premonition.

“Okay, pants,” Harley gives, pushing off the bed to help June turn so her legs are hanging off the edge of it. She’s got the mask over her mouth again – without prompting, which is _telling_ , and her brow is knit in a permanent kind of wince and Harley _hates_ that she’s hurting her, more, even though it’s the best option.

“I was _not serious_ about the threesome thing, you know,” Harley says, pushing up on her knees to reach around June’s body and find the clasp of her bra. Which – immediately, is a mistake, because they’re almost face-to-face and _close_ to each other, and June, who’s – delirious, or something; charged with the courage of almost-death and overly brave or something else stupid like that – just, _looks_ at Harley.

Arches an eyebrow. Exhales, presses a hand to her chest to keep her bra in place once Harley’s fingers snap free the clasp.

“You heard him. Rick’s just – watching.”

It’s a joke, probably. Definitely. _Definitely_ it’s a joke. But it’s been a _long fucking day_ and June shrugs, just enough for the black straps to fall from her shoulders, for her to slide her arms free, for her to be half-naked and a half-foot from Harley’s body.

It’s a joke, but it’s been a long day, and June’s only got underwear on – and Harley hates that she _notices_ the mint-green of the cotton – and Harley… Harley _wants June_.

God, she wants June. Her blood feels hot and syrupy-sweet; sticky in her veins, pooling in the base of her spine and the centre of her chest. She wants to kiss her; hard, good – _properly_. She wants a fistful of dirty-blonde and to tug June’s head back, to kiss her neck, the hollow of her throat; bite her, leave teeth marks in her collarbone. She wants June to dig nails into her back; wants to push her back on the bed and take June’s underwear off with her teeth – she just fucking _wants_.

And – _and_ – she thinks June knows that. Harley _thinks_ she’s being fucked with right now – just a little bit, maybe; because no one is _that_ coy, no one is this oblivious. It’s just – not possible.

“I’m going to try and find you some pain meds,” Harley decides aloud, shifting to sit back on her ankles. She grabs the red-black-white plaid throw blanket folded on the end of the bed, tugging it up to drape it around June’s shoulders. It’s big enough to basically bury her, and Harley makes sure to put the mask back where June can reach it before she goes to find Rick in the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the supportive commentary & feedback! i want to assure anyone who's worried that even though my updates have become sporadic because, well, life, i have no intentions of abandoning this story. thank you for sticking with me, and these morons, through it!
> 
> as always, feedback welcome.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here.](http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com/)


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